George Foster soon found that his master and owner, Ben-Ahmed, was a stern and exacting, but by no means an ill-natured or cruel, man. He appeared to be considerably over sixty years of age, but showed no signs of abated vigour. In character he was amiable and just, according to his light, but dignified and reticent.

 

His first act, after seating himself cross-legged on a carpet in a marble and tessellated recess, was to call for a hookah. He smoked that for a few minutes and contemplated the courtyard on which the recess opened. It was a pleasant object of contemplation, being filled with young orange-trees and creeping plants of a tropical kind, which were watered by a stone fountain in the centre of the court. This fountain also served to replenish a marble bath, to cool the sultry air, and to make pleasant tinkling music. Of course the nose was not forgotten in this luxurious assemblage of things that were gratifying to ear and eye. Flowers of many kinds were scattered around, and sweet-scented plants perfumed the air.

 

Ben-Ahmed’s next act, after having lighted his pipe, was to summon Peter the Great and his new slave—the former to act as interpreter, for it was a peculiarity of this Moor that though he appeared to understand English he would not condescend to speak it.

 

After asking several questions as to our hero’s name, age, and calling in life, he told Peter to inform Foster that escape from that country was impossible, that any attempt to escape would be punished with flogging and other torture, that perseverance in such attempts would result in his being sent to work in chains with the Bagnio slaves and would probably end in death from excessive toil, torture, and partial starvation. Having said this, the Moor asked several questions—through the negro, and always in the Lingua Franca.

 

“Massa bids me ax,” said Peter, “if you are a gentleman, an’ if you know it am de custom in England for gentleman-pris’ners to give dere word-ob-honour dat dey not run away, an’ den go about as if dey was free?”

 

“Tell him that every officer in the service of the King of England is considered a gentleman.”

 

“Come now, sar,” interrupted Peter sternly, “you know das not true. I bin in England myself—cook to a French rest’rung in London—an’ I nebber hear dat a pleece officer was a gentleman!”

 

“Well, I mean every commissioned officer in the army and navy,” returned Foster, “and when such are taken prisoner I am aware that they are always allowed a certain amount of freedom of action on giving their word of honour that they will not attempt to escape.”

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