“Madman!” exclaimed the elder chaouse, after Omar and Hassan had left, “you have put the bow-string round our necks as well as your own.”

 

“True,” answered Baba, with a bland smile, “and if we would not have it drawn tight, we must e’en obey the commands of Omar the Dey.”

 

“I suppose we must,” returned the chaouse gloomily; “but it is hard enough to be compelled to spend our days in strangling, thrashing, burning, beheading, flaying, and tormenting other men, without the addition of having our own necks put in jeopardy.”

 

The injustice attaching to themselves and their office seemed to weigh heavily for some time on the minds of both the executioners, notwithstanding the sallies and remonstrances of Hadji Baba, but before reaching the palace they had gone through the not difficult process—to a Turk—of setting the whole matter down to the decrees of Fate, and washing their hands of all guilt.

 

That evening, as the hour for action drew nigh, Hadji Baba and his colleagues began to grow rather uneasy—all the more so that the Dey was in a particularly bad humour.

 

Being an ignorant and uneducated man, he had found the work of gathering up the reins of government a very difficult task, notwithstanding the boldness of his heart and the determination of his will. True, he had simplified several knotty matters by bastinadoing and cutting off the heads of all concerned, but this left a multitude of matters which could not be disposed of in that summary fashion.

 

Among other things, he had been thwarted in his resolution to get possession of Angela Diego, whom he intended to have made a slave of the palace. Finding that she had taken refuge with the British consul at his country house, he sent a peremptory order to have the girl returned immediately, and, pending the result of that order, had locked Bacri up in a dungeon, with threats of the bastinado, and even death, in the event of any difficulty being thrown in the way.

 

After this he called for his coffee and pipe, his tame gazelle, chief executioners, and story-teller, resolving to throw the cares of state aside for the night and enjoy himself.

 

It was nearly eight o’clock when this order was given, to the consternation of Hadji Baba and his confederates, who were thus deprived of the power of rendering, in the guard-room, any assistance to the insurrectionists. There was, however, no alternative,—obedience was imperative.

 

“Sit down,” said the Dey to the unfortunate jester, when he entered the presence, limping with much apparent difficulty. “We will extend clemency to thee, in the hope that thou wilt redeem thy character. I am fond of marvellous stories. Thou mayest sit on that carpet. Now, look behind thee.”

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