The kiosk which he occupied was connected with a wooden structure raised upon pillars, like the open-air theatres constructed for a public festival, and the women occupied the most remote apartments.  Everything seemed sad and silent.  The vizier, according to custom, sat facing the doorway, so as to be the first to perceive any who might wish to enter.  At five o’clock boats were seen approaching the island, and soon Hassan Pacha, Omar Brionis, Kursheed’s sword-bearer, Mehemet, the keeper of the wardrobe, and several officers of the army, attended by a numerous suite, drew near with gloomy countenances.

Seeing them approach, Ali sprang up impetuously, his hand upon the pistols in his belt.  “Stand! . . . what is it you bring me?” he cried to Hassan in a voice of thunder.  “I bring the commands of His Highness the Sultan,—­knowest thou not these august characters?” And Hassan exhibited the brilliantly gilded frontispiece which decorated the firman.  “I know them and revere them.”  “Then bow before thy destiny; make thy ablutions; address thy prayer to Allah and to His Prophet; for thy, head is demanded. . . .”  Ali did not allow him to finish.  “My head,” he cried with fury, “will not be surrendered like the head of a slave.”

These rapidly pronounced words were instantly followed by a pistol-shot which wounded Hassan in the thigh.  Swift as lightning, a second killed the keeper of the wardrobe, and the guards, firing at the same time, brought down several officers.  Terrified, the Osmanlis forsook the pavilion.  Ali, perceiving blood flowing from a wound in his chest, roared like a bull with rage.  No one dared to face his wrath, but shots were fired at the kiosk from all sides, and four of his guards fell dead beside him.  He no longer knew which way to turn, hearing the noise made by the assailants under the platform, who were firing through the boards on which he stood.  A ball wounded him in the side, another from below lodged in his spine; he staggered, clung to a window, then fell on the sofa.  “Hasten,” he cried to one of his officers, “run, my friend, and strangle my poor Basilissa; let her not fall a prey to these infamous wretches.”

The door opened, all resistance ceased, the guards hastened to escape by the windows.  Kursheed’s sword-bearer entered, followed by the executioners.  “Let the justice of Allah be accomplished!” said a cadi.  At these words the executioners seized Ali, who was still alive, by the beard, and dragged him out into the porch, where, placing his head on one of the steps, they separated it from the body with many blows of a jagged cutlass.  Thus ended the career of the dreaded Ali Pacha.

His head still preserved so terrible and imposing an aspect that those present beheld it with a sort of stupor.  Kursheed, to whom it was presented on a large dish of silver plate, rose to receive it, bowed three times before it, and respectfully kissed the beard, expressing aloud his wish that he himself might deserve a similar end.  To such an extent did the admiration with which Ali’s bravery inspired these barbarians efface the memory of his crimes.  Kursheed ordered the head to be perfumed with the most costly essences, and despatched to Constantinople, and he allowed the Skipetars to render the last honours to their former master.