The monarch was a noble specimen of his race, tall, commanding, and with a spirit of firmness breathing from his expressive face.  His beard was jetty black, and gave a much older appearance to his features than belonged to them.  He was the child of a seraglio, whose mothers were chosen for beauty alone, and how could he escape being handsome?  The blood of Circassian upon Circassian was in his veins, and the trace of their nationality was upon his brow, but there was in the eye a doomed darkness of expression that caused the beautiful creature before him to almost tremble with fear.

“Beautiful, indeed,” mused the Sultan, as he gazed upon the slave with undisguised interest; “and how much did she cost us, good Mustapha?”

“One thousand piasters, excellency” answered the agent, with profound respect.

“A thousand piasters,” repeated the monarch, again gazing at the slave.

“Yes, excellency, the bids ran high.”

“A goodly sum, truly, Mustapha, but a goodly return,” continued the Sultan.

“There was one fault, excellency,” continued the agent, “that I feared might disappoint you.”

“And what is that, good Mustapha?”

“She is both deaf and dumb, excellency.”

“A mute?”

“Yes, excellency.”

“Both deaf and dumb,” repeated the Sultan, rising from his divan and approaching the lovely Circassian, actuated by the interest that he felt at so singular an announcement.

While the old Turk stroked his beard with an air of satisfaction at the result of his purchase as it regarded the approval of his master, the slave bent humbly before the monarch, for though she knew not by any word or sign addressed to her who her master was, yet she felt that no one could assume that air of dignity and command but the Sultan.  A blush stole over the pale face of the Circassian as the monarch laid his hand on her arm and gazed intently upon her face, and whatever his inward thoughts were, his handsome countenance expressed a spirit of tenderness and gentle concern for her situation that became him well, for clemency is the brightest jewel in a crown.

“Deaf and dumb,” repeated the Sultan against to himself, “and yet so very beautiful.”

“She is beautiful, indeed, excellency,” said the old Turk, echoing his master’s thoughts.

“So they sought her eagerly at the market, good Mustapha, did they not?”

“Excellency, yes.  One of your own officers bid against me heavily; he wore the marine uniform.”

“Ha! did the fellow know you?” asked the Sultan, quickly, with a flashing eye that showed how capable that face was of a far different expression from that which the dumb slave had given rise to.

“I think he did not know me, excellency.”

After a moment’s pause the Sultan turned again to the gentle girl that stood before him, and taking her hand, endeavored by his looks of kind assurance to express to her that he should strive to make her happy; and as he smoothed her dark, glossy hair tenderly, the slave bent her forehead to the hand that held her own, in token of gratitude for the kindness with which she was received, and when she raised her face again.  Both the Sultan and Mustapha saw that tears had wet her cheeks, and her bosom heaved quickly with the emotion that actuated her.