it read to you on some future day."

"That is right, Mustapha, if I recollect well, the Caliph Haroun used to
command them to be written in letters of gold, and be deposited in the
archives: we must do the same."

"The art no longer exists, your highness."

"Then we must be content with Indian-ink," replied the pacha, lifting
the pitcher to his mouth, and emptying it.

"The sun will soon be down, Mustapha, and we must set off."




Chapter II


The pacha called for coffee, and in a few minutes, accompanied, as
before, by Mustapha and the armed slaves, was prowling through the city
in search of a story-teller. He was again fortunate, as after a walk of
half an hour, he overheard two men loudly disputing at the door of a
small wine-shop, frequented by the Greeks and Franks living in the city,
and into which many a slave might be observed to glide, returning with a
full pitcher for the evening's amusement of his Turkish master, who, as
well as his betters, clandestinely violated the precepts of the Koran.

As usual he stopped to listen, when one of the disputants exclaimed--"I
tell thee, Anselmo, it is the vilest composition that was ever drunk: