The Circassian loved the poor half-witted boy, for love begets love, and the lad had seemed to love her from the first moment they had met in the Sultan’s halls, since when they had been almost inseparable.

It was on a fair summer’s afternoon, that the Sultan, strolling in the flower gardens of the palace, either by design or accident, came upon a spot where Komel was half reclining upon one of the soft lounges that were strewn here and there under tiny latticed pagodas, to shelter the occupant from the sun.  While yet a considerable way off, the Turk paused to admire his slave as she reclined there in easy and unaffected gracefulness, apparently lost in a day dream.  She was very beautiful there all by herself, save the half-witted boy, who seemed to be asleep now, away out on the projecting limb of a cypress tree that nearly overhung the spot, and where he had coiled himself up, and managed to sustain his position upon the limb by some unaccountable means of his own.

The Sultan drew quietly nearer until he was close by her side before she discovered him, when starting from the reverie that had bound her so long, she half rose out of respect for the monarch’s presence, but no smile clothed her features; she welcomed him not by greeting of any kind.

“What dreams my pretty favorite about, with her eyes open all the while?” asked the Sultan.

“How knew you that I dreamed?”

“I read it in your face.  It needs no conjuror to define that, Komel.”

“Would you know of what I was thinking?”

“It was my question, pretty one.”

“Of home—­of my poor parents, and of my lost Aphiz,” she answered, bitterly.

“I have told thee to forget those matters, and content thyself here as mistress of my harem.”

“That can never be; my heart to-day is as much as ever among my native hills.”

“Well, Komel, time must and will change you, at last.  We are not impatient.”

Had the monarch rightly interpreted the expression of her face at this moment, he would have understood how deeply rooted was her resolve, at least, so far as he was concerned, and that she bitterly despised the murderer of Aphiz, and in this spirit only could she look upon the proud master of the Turkish nation.  He mistook Komel’s disposition and nature, in supposing that she would ever forgive or tolerate him.  He did not remember how unlike her people she had already proved herself.  He did not realize that his high station, his wealth, the pomp and elegance that surrounded his slave, were looked upon by her only as the flowers that adorn the victim of a sacrifice.  Having never been thwarted in his will and purpose, he had yet to learn that such a thing could be accomplished by a simple girl.

As the Sultan turned an angle in the path that led towards the palace, he was met by one of the eunuch guards, who saluted him after the military style with his carbine, and marched steadily on in pursuance of his duty.  The monarch did not even lift his eyes at the guard’s salute—­his thoughts were uneasy, and his brow dark with disappointment.