crowd which opened before him with alacrity, the admiration received by the Prince’s ally and friend was but a well-deserved tribute.
“A tiger-hunter!” said one, to a friend at his elbow.
“I should call him king of the tiger-hunters,” the friend replied.
“Only a Prince of India would carry such a pensioner with him,” another remarked.
“What a man!” said a woman, half afraid.
“An infidel, no doubt,” was the answer.
“It is not a Christian wish, I know,” the first added; “still I should like to see him face a lion in the Cynegion.”
“Ay, him they call Tamerlane, because he is shorn of two toes.”
The Prince, casting a glance of scarce concealed contempt over the throng, sighed, as he muttered, “If now I could meet the Emperor!”
The exclamation was from his heart.
We have seen the idea which lured him to Mecca, and brought him to Constantinople. In the years since flown, it was held subordinate to his love of Lael—subordinate merely. Latterly it had revived with much of its original force, and he was now for the first time seriously scheming for an interview with the Emperor. No doubt a formal request would have secured the honor; but it was in his view better policy to be sought than seek, and with all his wealth, there was nothing he could so well afford to pay for success as time. In his study, he was continually saying to himself:
“It cannot be that the extravagances to which I am going will fail. He will hear of me, or we may meet—then the invitation!—And then I will propose the Brotherhood—God help me! But it is for him to invite me. Patience, O my soul!”
Extravagances!
The exclamation helps us to an understanding of the style he was carrying before the public—the silvering on his own black velvet robe, the jewels in Lael’s coronet bursting with light, the gorgeous finish of the sedans, the barbaric costuming of Nilo. They were not significant of his taste. Except for what they might bring him, he did not care for jewels. And as for Lael, he would have loved her for her name’s sake, and her honest, untarnished Jewish blood. Let us believe so at least until we find otherwise.
Nilo, by this time familiar with every quarter of the city, was told the boat was in readiness for the party at a landing near the Grand Gate of Blacherne; to make which, it being on the Golden Horn well up in the northwest, he must turn the hill back of the Prince’s residence, and pursue one of the streets running parallel with the wall. Thither he accordingly bent his steps, followed by the porters of the sedans, and an increasing but respectful assemblage of curious citizens.
Scarcely had the progress begun before the Prince, watching through his front window, saw a man approach the side of Lael’s chair, and peer into it. His wit served him well and instantly.
“‘Tis he—the insolent!—Close up!” he cried, to his porters.
The intruder at the sound of his voice looked at him once, then disappeared in the throng. He was young, handsome, showily dressed, and beyond question the person of whom Lael had complained. Though smarting under the insult, and a suspicion, suddenly engendered, of a watch kept over his house, the Prince concluded the stranger was of noble connection, and that the warrant for his boldness was referable to family influence. While his subtle mind was pothering with schemes of detection, the affair presented itself in another light, and he laughed at his own dulness.
“‘Tis nothing,” he reflected—“nothing! The boy is in love, and allowing his passion to make a fool of him. I have only to see my pretty Gul-Bahar does not return the madness.”
Deciding then to make inquiry and satisfy himself who the young admirer was, he dismissed the subject.
Presently Nilo turned into a street of some width compared with the generality of thoroughfares in the city. On the left hand were shops and pretentious houses; on the right, towered the harbor wall. The people attending the procession increased instead of dispersing; but as they continued in good nature, they gave him no concern. Their comments amongst themselves were about equally divided between Nilo and Lael.
“Beautiful, beautiful!” one said, catching sight of the latter through the windows of the chair.
“Who is she?”
“A daughter of a Prince of India.”
“And the Prince—Who is he?”
“Ask some one who knows. There he is in the second chair.”
Once a woman went close to Lael, snatched a look, and stepped back, with clasped hands, crying:
“‘Tis the Sweet Mother herself!”
Without other incident, the procession passed the gate of St. Peter, and was nearing that of Blacherne, when a flourish of trumpets announced a counter pageant coming down the street from the opposite direction. A man near by shouted:
“The Emperor! The Emperor!”
Another seconded him, “Long live the good Constantine!”
The words were hardly uttered before they were answered:
“The azymite! The azymite! Down with the betrayer of Christ!”
In less than a minute the Prince was being borne along in the midst of two howling factions. Scarcely knowing whether to take Lael into a house or go on, he tried to communicate with Nilo; but in unconsciousness of the tempest so suddenly risen, that grandson of a king marched on in unremitted stateliness, until directly a band of trumpeters in magnificent livery confronted him.
The astonishment was mutual. Nilo halted, dropping his headless lance in defence; the trumpeters quit blowing, and, opening order, filed hastily by him, their faces saying with a distinctness words could not have helped:
“A son of Satan! Beware!”
The chairs were also brought to a halt.
Thereupon the people, now a mob apparently ready to tear each other into bloody ribbons, refused to give way to the trumpeters. Nilo finally comprehending the situation returned to Lael just as the Prince on foot came up to her. She was pale and trembling with fear.
The deadlock between the musicians and the mob was brought to an end by the appearance of a detachment of the Imperial guard. A mounted officer, javelin in hand, rode up and shouted:
“The Emperor! Make way for the Emperor!”
While he was speaking, the horsemen behind him came on steadily. There was irresistible persuasion in the glitter of their spears; besides it was matter of universal knowledge that the steel panoply of each rider concealed a mercenary foreigner who was never so happy as when riding over a Greek. One yell louder and more defiant than any yet uttered—“The azymite, theazymite! “—and the mob broke and fled. At a signal from the officer, the guards, as they came on, opened right and left of the chairs, and passed them with scarce notice.
A few words from the Prince to Lael dispelled her fears.
“It is an every-day affair,” he said,
