The pacha was so amused with the stories, that he never once felt inclined to sleep; on the contrary, the Greek slave was compelled to read every afternoon, until his legs were so tired that he could hardly stand, and his tongue almost refused its office; consequently, they were soon finished; and Mustapha not being able to procure any more, they were read a second time.  After which the pacha, who felt the loss of his evening’s amusement, became first puzzled how to pass away his time; then he changed to hypochondriacism, and finally became so irritable, that even Mustapha himself, at times, approached him with some degree of awe.

“I have been thinking,” observed the pacha, one morning, when under the hands of Mustapha, in his original capacity, “that it would be as easy for me to have stories told me, as the caliph in the Arabian Nights.”

“I wonder not that your highness should desire it.  Those stories are as the opium to Theriarkis, filling the soul with visions of delight at the moment, but leaving it palsied from over-excitement, when their effect has passed away.  How does your sublime highness propose to obtain your end; and in what manner can your slave assist to produce your wishes?”

“I shall manage it without assistance; come this evening and you shall see, Mustapha.”

Mustapha made his appearance in the afternoon, and the pacha smoked his pipe for some time, and appeared as if communing with himself; he then laid it down, and clapping his hands, desired one of the slaves to inform his favourite lady, Zeinab, that he desired her presence.

Zeinab entered with her veil down.  “Your slave attends the pleasure of her lord.”

“Zeinab,” said the pacha, “do you love me?”

“Do not I worship the dust that my lord treads on?”

“Very true—­then I have a favour to request—­observe, Zeinab—­it is my wish that”—­(here the pacha took a few whiffs from his pipe—­) “The fact is—­I wish you to dishonour my harem as soon as possible.”

“Wallah sel Nebi!!—­by Allah and the Prophet! your highness is in a merry humour this evening,” replied Zeinab, turning round to quit the apartment.

“On the contrary, I am in a serious humour; I mean what I have said; and I expect that you will comply with my wishes.”

“Is my lord mad? or has he indulged too freely in the juice of the grape forbidden by our prophet?  Allah Kebur!  God is most powerful—­The Hakim must be sent for.”

“Will you do as I order you?” said the pacha, angrily.

“Does my lord send for his slave to insult her!  My blood is as water, at the dreadful thought!—­Dishonour the harem!—­Min Allah!  God forbid!—­Would not the eunuch be ready and the sack?”

“Yes, they would, I acknowledge; but still it must be done.”

“It shall not be done,” replied the lady:—­“Has my lord been visited by heaven? or is he possessed by the Shitan?”—­And the lady burst into tears of rage and vexation as she quitted the apartment.