Scarcely had he started before his wives complained to Ali that Euphrosyne usurped their rights and caused their husband to neglect them.  Ali, who complained greatly of his sons’ extravagance, and regretted the money they squandered, at once struck a blow which was both to enrich himself and increase the terror of his name.

One night he appeared by torchlight, accompanied by his guards, at Euphrosyne’s house.  Knowing his cruelty and avarice, she sought to disarm one by gratifying the other:  she collected her money and jewels and laid them at Ali’s feet with a look of supplication.

“These things are only my own property, which you restore,” said he, taking possession of the rich offering.  “Can you give back the heart of Mouktar, which you have stolen?”

Euphrosyne besought him by his paternal feelings, for the sake of his son whose love had been her misfortune and was now her only crime, to spare a mother whose conduct had been otherwise irreproachable.  But her tears and pleadings produced no effect on Ali, who ordered her to be taken, loaded with fetters and covered with a piece of sackcloth, to the prison of the seraglio.

If it were certain that there was no hope for the unhappy Euphrosyne, one trusted that she might at least be the only victim.  But Ali, professing to follow the advice of some severe reformers who wished to restore decent morality, arrested at the same time fifteen ladies belonging to the best Christian families in Janina.  A Wallachian, named Nicholas Janco, took the opportunity to denounce his own wife, who was on the point of becoming a mother, as guilty of adultery, and handed her also over to the pacha.  These unfortunate women were brought before Ali to undergo a trial of which a sentence of death was the foregone conclusion.  They were then confined in a dungeon, where they spent two days of misery.  The third night, the executioners appeared to conduct them to the lake where they were to perish.  Euphrosyne, too exhausted to endure to the end, expired by the way, and when she was flung with the rest into the dark waters, her soul had already escaped from its earthly tenement.  Her body was found the next day, and was buried in the cemetery of the monastery of Saints-Anargyres, where her tomb, covered with white iris and sheltered by a wild olive tree, is yet shown.

Mouktar was returning from his expedition when a courier from his brother Veli brought him a letter informing him of these events.  He opened it.  “Euphrosyne!” he cried, and, seizing one of his pistols, fired it at the messenger, who fell dead at his feet,—­“Euphrosyne, behold thy first victim!” Springing on his horse, he galloped towards Janina.  His guards followed at a distance, and the inhabitants of all the villages he passed fled at his approach.  He paid no attention to them, but rode till his horse fell dead by the lake which had engulfed Euphrosyne, and then, taking a boat, he went to hide his grief and rage in his own palace.