Shades of sympathy, more or less deep, flitted across the faces of my
audience, and for a moment they regarded me as something they could
neither convince nor comfort nor understand. Then softly repeating
_Poot-thoo! Poot-thoo!_ "Dear God! dear God!" they quietly left me. A
minute more, and I heard them laughing and shouting in the halls.

Relieved of my curious and exacting visitors, I lay down and fell into a
deep sleep, from which I was suddenly awakened, in the afternoon, by the
cries of Beebe, who rushed into the chamber, her head bare, her fine
muslin veil trampled under her feet, and her face dramatically
expressive of terror and despair. Moonshee, her husband, ignorant alike
of the topography, the language, and the rules of the place, had by
mistake intruded in the sacred penetralia where lounged the favorite of
the harem, to the lively horror of that shrinking Nourmahal, and the
general wrath of the old women on guard, two of whom, the ugliest,
fiercest, and most muscular, had dragged him, daft and trembling, to
summary inquisition.

I followed Beebe headlong to an open sala, where we found that
respectable servant of the Prophet, his hands tied, his turban off,
woe-begone but resigned; faithful and philosophic Moslem that he was, he
only waited for his throat to be cut, since it was his _kismut_, his
perverse destiny, that had brought him to such a region of _Kafirs_,
(infidels). Assuring him that there was nothing to fear, I despatched a
messenger in search of the interpreter, while Beebe wept and protested.
Presently an imposing personage stalked upon the scene, whose appearance
matched his temper and his conduct. This was the judge. In vain I strove
to explain to him by signs and gestures that my servant had offended
unwittingly; he could not or would not understand me; but stormed away
at our poor old man, who bore his abuse with the calm indifference of