For two years I remained in solitude. I erected a rude chapel over her grave, and there passed my days in penance and contrition. Vessels belonging to other nations visited the island, and returning home with the intelligence, it was taken possession of and colonised. To their astonishment, they found me; and, when I narrated my story and my wishes, allowed me a passage to their country. Once more I embarked on the trackless wave, no longer my delight; and as the shore receded, I watched the humble edifice which I had raised over the remains of my Rosina: it appeared to me as if a star had settled over the spot, and I hailed it as an harbinger of grace. When I landed, I repaired to the convent to which I now belong; and, taking the vows of abstinence and mortification, have passed the remainder of my days in masses for the soul of my Rosina, and prayers for my own redemption.
Such is the history of Henrique; and may it be a warning to those who allow their reason to be seduced by passion, and check not the first impulse towards wrong, when conscience dictates that they are straying from the paths of virtue!
* * * * *
“Holy Allah!” exclaimed the pacha, yawning; “is this the bulbul singing to the rose?—What is it all about, Mustapha? or what is it written for, but to send one asleep? Murakhas, you are dismissed,” continued the pacha to the Greek slave, who retired.
Mustapha, who perceived that the pacha was disappointed in the entertainment of the evening, immediately addressed him:—“The soul of your sublime highness is sad, and the mind is wearied.—What says the sage? and are not his words of more value than large pearls? ’When thou art sick, and thy mind is heavy, send for wine. Drink, and thank Allah that he has given relief.’”
“Wallah Thaib!—it is well said,” replied the pacha: “Is not the ‘fire-water’ of the Franks to be obtained?”
“Is not the earth, and what the earth contains, made for your sublime highness?” replied Mustapha, drawing from his vest a bottle of spirits.
“God is great!” said the pacha, taking the bottle from his mouth, after a long draught, and handing it to his vizier.
“God is most merciful!” replied Mustapha, recovering his breath, and wiping down his beard with the sleeve of his kalaat, as he respectfully passed the bottle over to his superior.
“Hham d’illah! Praise be to God!” exclaimed the pacha, as the divan closed. “This is dry work, hearing petitions for three hours, and not a sequin to my treasury. Mustapha, has the renegade come back?”
“The Kafir waits to kiss the dust of your sublime feet,” replied the vizier.
“Let him approach, then, Mustapha,” said the pacha joyfully, and the renegade immediately made his appearance.
“Kosh amedeid, you are welcome, Huckaback. We have had our ears poisoned since you quitted us. I forget where it was that you left off.”