Adsalis, desperate with rage and shame, returned to the Seraglio.
Sobbing aloud, she cast herself at the feet of the Sultan, and told him
of the disgrace that had befallen her.
Mahmud only smiled as he heard the whole story, but who can tell what
was behind that smile.
"Dost thou not love me, then, that thou smilest when I weep? Ought not
blood to flow because tears have flowed from my eyes?"
Mahmud gently stroked the head of the Sultana and said, still smiling:
"Oh, Adsalis! who would ever think of plucking fruit before it is
_ripe_?"
CHAPTER XI.
GLIMPSES INTO THE FUTURE.
Halil Patrona was sitting on the balcony of the palace which the Sultan
and the favour of the people had bestowed upon him. The sun was about to
set. It sparkled on the watery mirror of the Golden Horn, hundreds and
hundreds of brightly gleaming flags and sails flapped and fluttered in
the evening breeze.
Guel-Bejaze was lying beside him on an ottoman, her beautiful head, with
a feeling of languid bliss, reposed on her husband's bosom, her long
eyelashes drooping, whilst with her swan-like arms she encircled his
neck. She dozes away now and then, but the warm throb-throb of the
strong heart which makes her husband's breast to rise and fall
continually arouses her again. Halil Patrona is reading in a big clasped
book beautifully written in the ornamental Talik script. Guel-Bejaze does
not know this writing; its signs are quite strange to her, but she
feasts her delighted eyes on the beautifully painted festoons and
lilies and the variegated birds with which the initial letters are
embellished, and scarce observes what a black shadow those pretty gaily
coloured, butterfly-like letters cast upon Halil's face.
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