with a black velvet mask, such as we call moretta in Venice.  The appearance of that beautiful masked woman surprised and delighted every one of the guests, for it was impossible to imagine a more interesting object, not only on account of the beauty of that part of the face which the mask left exposed, but also for the elegance of her shape, the perfection of her figure, and the exquisite taste displayed in her costume.  The nymph took her place, I did the same, and we danced the forlana six times without stopping.

I was in perspiration and out of breath, for the foylana is the most violent of our national dances; but my beautiful partner stood near me without betraying the slightest fatigue, and seemed to challenge me to a new performance.  At the round of the dance, which is the most difficult step, she seemed to have wings.  I was astounded, for I had never seen anyone, even in Venice, dance the forlana so splendidly.  After a few minutes rest, rather ashamed of my feeling tired, I went up to her, and said, ‘Ancora sei, a poi basta, se non volete vedermi a morire.’  She would have answered me if she had been able, but she wore one of those cruel masks which forbid speech.  But a pressure of her hand which nobody could see made me guess all I wanted to know.  The moment we finished dancing the eunuch opened the door, and my lovely partner disappeared.

Ismail could not thank me enough, but it was I who owed him my thanks, for it was the only real pleasure which I enjoyed in Constantinople.  I asked him whether the lady was from Venice, but he only answered by a significant smile.

“The worthy Ismail,” said M. de Bonneval to me, as we were leaving the house late in the evening, “has been to-day the dupe of his vanity, and I have no doubt that he is sorry already for what he has done.  To bring out his beautiful slave to dance with you!  According to the prejudices of this country it is injurious to his dignity, for you are sure to have kindled an amorous flame in the poor girl’s breast.  I would advise you to be careful and to keep on your guard, because she will try to get up some intrigue with you; but be prudent, for intrigues are always dangerous in Turkey.”

I promised to be prudent, but I did not keep my promise; for, three or four days afterwards, an old slave woman met me in the street, and offered to sell me for one piaster a tobacco-bag embroidered in gold; and as she put it in my hand she contrived to make me feel that there was a letter in the bag.

I observed that she tried to avoid the eyes of the janissary who was walking behind me; I gave her one piaster, she left me, and I proceeded toward Yusuf’s house.  He was not at home, and I went to his garden to read the letter with perfect freedom.  It was sealed and without any address, and the slave might have made a mistake; but my curiosity was excited to the highest pitch; I broke the seal, and found the following note written in good enough Italian: