master.

Let us look in upon the royal presence for a moment. It is a
gorgeous saloon, where the monarch lounges upon satin cushions, with
the rich amber mouthpiece of his pipe between his lips, and the
perfumed tobacco gently wreathing in blue smoke above his head.
Mahomet was at this moment seated on a pedestal of cushions, so rich
and soft that he seemed almost, lost in their luxuriance. Reclining
by his side was a creature so lovely in her maidenly beauty, that
pencil, not pen, should describe her. Ever and anon the monarch cast
glances of such tenderness towards her that an unprejudiced observer
would have noticed at once the warmth of his feelings towards her,
while the gentle slave, for it was Lalla, turned over a pile of rich
English engravings, pausing now and then to hold one of more than
usual interest before his eyes.

It was an interesting scene. The pictures had deeply interested the
slave, and with graceful abandon she had forgotten everything but
them; now smiling over some curious representation, or sighing over
another no less truthful, and her fair, young face expressing the
feelings that actuated her bosom with telltale accuracy all the
while. Her dark hair was interwoven with pearls by the running hands
of the Nubian slaves, and its long plaits reached nearly to her
feet, while across her fair brow there hung a cluster of diamonds
which might have ransomed an emperor--a gift from the Sultan himself.

The Sultan seemed, of late, scarcely contented to have her from his
side for a single hour, and even received his officials and gave
audience, with her in the presence oftentimes, first motioning her,
on such occasions, to cover her face, after the style of the Turkish