“Six hundred piasters.”

“Seven,” said the previous bidder.

“Eight,” continued the naval officer.

“Eight fifty,” responded the old Turk.

“Nine hundred,” said the officer, with a promptness that attracted the attention of the crowd.

“One thousand piasters,” said his competitor, as he continued to regard her exquisite and beautiful mould, and her features, so like a picture, in their regular and artistic lines of beauty.  It was very plain that the old Turk felt, as he gazed upon her, so silent yet so beautiful, that she was richly worth her weight in pearls.

“A thousand piasters,” repeated the vender of the slave market, turning once more to the officer, then added, as he received no encouraging sign from him, “a thousands piasters, and sold!”

The officer regarded her with much interest, and turned away in evident disappointment, for the old Turk who had outbid him, had gone beyond any means that he possessed.  The purchaser handed forth the money in a couple of small bags, and throwing a close veil over the head of the slave, led her away through the narrow and winding streets of old Stamboul to the water’s side, where they entered a caique that awaited them, and pulled up the harbor.

Its shooting caiques, its forest of merchantmen, and its hoard of Turkish war ships; were changed, in a few moments of swift pulling, for the breathless solitude of the Valley of Sweet Waters, which opens with a gentle curve from the Golden Horn, and winds away into the hills towards Belgrade, where the river assumes the character of a silvery stream, threading its way through a soft and verdant meadow on either hand, as beautiful in aspect as the Prophet’s Paradise.  The spot where the Sultan sends his swift-footed Arabians to graze on the earliest verdure that decks the face of spring.

It was up this fairy-like passage that the dumb slave was swept in her master’s caique, and by scenes so beautiful as even to enchant her sad and silent bosom.  The Turk marked well the influence of the scenery upon the Circassian, and slowly stroked his beard with silent satisfaction at the sight.

The caique soon stopped before a gorgeous palace, in the midst of this fine plain, and the Turk, by a signal, summoned the guard of eunuchs from a tent of the Prophet’s green, that was pitched near the banks of the Barbyses, that ran its meandering course through this verdant scene.  It was a princely home, the proudest harem in all this gem of the Orient, for the old Turk had acted not for himself in the purchase he had made, but as the agent of a higher will than his own, and the dumb slave was led to the seraglio of the Sultan.

The old Turk was evidently a privileged body, and following close upon the heels of the eunuchs, he divested himself of his slippers at the entrance of the palace, and led the slave before the “Brother of the Sun.”