“Sir, sir, rise up quickly, for all Stambul is in a commotion.”

“Take care!—­don’t tread upon my tulips, you blockhead; don’t you see that you nearly trampled upon one of them!”

“Oh, my master! tulips bloom every year, but if you trample a man to death, Mashallah! he will rise no more.  Hasten, for the rioters are already turning the city upside down!”

The Kapudan Pasha very gently, very cautiously, placed the flower, which he had raised with both hands, in the porcelain vase, and pressed the earth down on every side of it so that it might keep steady when carried.

“What dost thou say, my son?” he then condescended to ask.

“The people of Stambul have risen in revolt.”

“The people of Stambul, eh?  What sort of people?  Do you mean the cobblers, the hucksters, the fishermen, and the bakers?”

“Yes, sir, they have all risen in revolt.”

“Very well, I’ll be there directly and tell them to be quiet.”

“Oh, sir, you speak as if you could extinguish the burning city with this watering-can.  The will of Allah be done!”

But the Kapudan Pasha, with a merry heart, kept on watering the transplanted tulips till he had done it thoroughly, and entrusted them to four bostanjis, bidding them carry the flowers through the canal to the Sultan’s palace at Scutari, while he had his horse saddled and without the slightest escort trotted quite alone into Stambul, where at that very moment they were crying loudly for his head.

On the way thither, he came face to face with the Kiaja coming in a wretched, two-wheeled kibitka, with a Russian coachman sitting in front of him to hide him as much as possible from the public view.  He bellowed to the Kapudan Pasha not to go to Stambul as death awaited him there.  At this the Kapudan Pasha simply shrugged his shoulders.  What an idea!  To be frightened of an army of bakers and cobblers indeed!  It was sheer nonsense, so he tried to persuade the Kiaja to turn back again with him and restore order by showing themselves to the rioters, whereupon the latter vehemently declared that not for all the joys of Paradise would he do so, and begged his Russian coachman to hasten on towards Scutari as rapidly as possible.

The Kapudan Pasha promised that he would not be very long behind him; nay, inasmuch as the Kiaja was making a very considerable detour, while he himself was taking the direct road straight through Stambul, he insinuated that it was highly probable he might reach Scutari before him.

“We shall meet again shortly,” he cried by way of a parting salute.

“Yes, in Abraham’s bosom, I expect,” murmured the Kiaja to himself as he raced away again, while the Kapudan Pasha ambled jauntily into the city.

Already from afar he beheld the palace of the Reis-Effendi, on whose walls were inscribed in gigantic letters the following announcements: 

“Death to the Chief Mufti!