Part 24 (2/2)
The Sultan grew attentive. What uproar is that outside the Seraglio?
What light is that which s.h.i.+nes at the top of the round windows?
That uproar is no beating of drums; those shouts are not the shouts of revellers; that din is not the beating of cymbals; no, 'tis the clas.h.i.+ng of swords, the thundering of cannons, the tumult of a siege, and that light is not the light of bonfires but of blazing rafters!
Up, up, Mahmoud, from thy sofa! Away with thy gla.s.s and out with thy sword! This is no night for revelry; death is abroad; insurrection is at thy very gate! They are besieging the Seraglio!
Twelve thousand Janissaries, joined with the rabble of Stambul, are attacking the gates at the very time when the orchestra is playing its liveliest airs in the illuminated hall.
”Do ye hear that?” exclaimed Kara Makan, the most famous orator of the Janissaries, who with his own hand had hung up the Metropolitan of Constantinople on the very threshold of the palace. ”Do ye hear that music? Here they are rejoicing when the whole empire around them is in mourning. Do ye know what are the latest tidings this night? The Suliotes have captured Gaskho Bey, and annihilated our army before Janina. A woman has blown up the s.h.i.+p of the Kapudan Pasha, and the Shah has fallen upon Kermandzhan with an army! Destruction is drawing near to us, and treachery dwells in the Seraglio. Hearken! They dance, they sing, they bathe their lips in wine, and their blasphemies bring upon us the scourge of Allah! We shed our tears and our blood, and they make merry and mock at us! Shall not they also weep? Shall not their blood also be shed? So fare it with them as it has fared with our brethren whom they sent to the shambles!”
The furious mob answered these seditious words with an indescribable bellowing.
”If we traversed the whole empire we should not find a worse spot than this place.”
”Set fire to the Seraglio!” cried one voice suddenly, and the others took up the cry.
”And if you escape from all other enemies, would you fall into the claws of the worst enemies of all?”
”Death to the Viziers! Death to the lords of the palace!” thundered the people; and one voice close to Kara Makan, rising above the others, exclaimed, ”Death to the Sultan!”
Kara Makan turned in that direction and defended his master. ”Hurt not the Sultan! The life of the Sultan is sacred. He and his children are the last survivors of the blood of Omar; and although he be not worthy to sit on the throne which the heroic Muhammad erected for his descendants, yet he is the last of his race, and, therefore, the head of the Sultan is sacred. But death upon the head of the Reis-Effendi, death to the Kizlar-Agasi and the Kapudan Pasha! They are the cause of our desolation. The chiefs of the Giaours pay them to destroy their country. Tear all these up by the roots, and if there be any children of their family, destroy them also, even to the very babes and sucklings, that the memory of them may perish utterly!”
The mob thundered angrily at the gates of the Seraglio, which were shut and fastened with chains. The Janissaries blew the horns of revolt, the drums rolled, and within there the Sultan was reposing his head on the bosom of a beautiful girl. Suddenly a loud report shook the whole Seraglio. An audacious ichoglan had fired his gun upon the mob as it rushed to attack the water-gate.
The Sultan, in dismay, quitted the harem, and hastened to the middle gate in order to address the mob. On his way through the corridor, his servants and his ministers threw themselves at his feet and implored him not to show himself to the people. Mahmoud did not listen to them.
In the confusion of the moment, moreover, it never occurred to him that he was wearing a Frankish costume, which the people hated and execrated.
When he appeared on the balcony the light of the torches fell full upon him, and the Janissaries recognized him. Every one at once pointed their fingers at him, and immediately an angry and scornful howl arose.
”Look! that is the Sultan! Behold the Caliph--the Caliph, the Padishah of the Moslems--in the garb of the Giaours! That is Mahmoud, the ally of our enemies!”
The Sultan shrank before this furious uproar of the mob, and, involuntarily falling back, stammered, pale as death:
”With what shall we allay this tempest?”
His servants, with quivering lips, stood around him. At that moment they neither feared nor respected their master.
Suddenly a bold young ichoglan rushed towards the Sultan, and answered his question in a courageous and confident voice:
”With swords, with guns, with weapons!”
It was Thomar.
The Sultan scrutinized the youth from head to foot, amazed at his audacity; then hastening back to his dressing-chamber, exchanged his ball dress for his royal robes, and, coming back from the inner apartments, descended into the court-yard.
The guns were already pointed at the gates, the topijis stood beside them, match in hand, impatiently awaiting the order to fire.
When the Sultan appeared in the court-yard he was at once surrounded by some hundreds of the ichoglanler, determined to defend him to the last drop of their blood. Mahmoud again recognized Thomar among them; he appeared to be the leading spirit of the band.
The Sultan beckoned to them to put back their swords in their sheaths.
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