“Where is the holy man?  I have money to give into his charge.  May I not see him?”

“He is at his devotions—­but what is that?  Am not I the same?  Do I not watch when he prayeth—­Inshallah—­please God, we are the same.  Give me the bag.”

“Here it is,” said she, pulling out the money:  “seven hundred sequins, my daughter’s marriage-portion; but there are bad men, who steal, and there are good men, whom we can trust.  Say I not well?”

“It is well said,” replied I; “and God is great.”

“You will find the money right,” said she.  “Count it.”

I counted it, and returned it into the goat-skin bag.  “It is all right.  Leave me, woman, for I must go in.”

The old woman left me, returning thanks to Allah that her money was safe, but from certain ideas running in my mind, I very much doubted the fact.  I sat down full of doubts.  I doubted if the old woman had come honestly by the money; and whether I should give it to the head dervish.  I doubted whether I ought to retain it for myself, and whether I might not come to mischief.  I also had my doubts——­

* * * * *

“I have no doubt,” interrupted Mustapha, “but that you kept it for yourself.  Say—­is it not so?”

* * * * *

Even so did my doubts resolve into that fact.  I settled it in my mind, that seven hundred sequins, added to about four hundred still in my possession, would last some time, and that I was tired of the life of a howling dervish.  I therefore set up one last long final howl to let my senior know that I was present, and then immediately became absent.  I hastened to the bazaar, and purchasing here and there—­at one place a vest, at another a shawl, and at another a turban—­I threw off my dress of a dervish, hastened to the bath, and after a few minutes under the barber, came out like a butterfly from its dark shell.  No one would have recognised in the spruce young Turk, the filthy dervish.  I hastened to Constantinople, where I lived gaily, and spent my money; but I found that to mix in the world, it is necessary not only to have an attaghan, but also to have the courage to use it; and in several broils which took place, from my too frequent use of the water of the Giaour, I invariably proved that, although my voice was that of a lion, my heart was but as water, and the finger of contempt was but too often pointed at the beard of pretence.  One evening, as I was escaping from a coffee-house, after having drawn my attaghan, without having the courage to face my adversary, I received a blow from his weapon which cleft my turban, and cut deeply into my head.  I flew through the streets upon the wings of fear, and at last ran against an unknown object, which I knocked down, and then fell along side of, rolling with it in the mud.  I recovered myself, and looking at it, found it to be alive, and, in the excess of my alarm, I imagined it to be Shitan himself; but if not the devil himself, it was one of the sons of Shitan, for it was an unbeliever, a Giaour, a dog to spit upon; in short, it was a Frank hakim—­so renowned for curing all diseases that it was said he was assisted by the Devil.