The Circassian Slave | Page 2

should
be even partially bereft of her faculties.
"Are you deaf and dumb?" asked an old Turk, approaching the
Circassian where she stood, as though he wished to satisfy himself as to
the truth of what the salesman had announced.
The slave lifted her eyes at his approach, and only shook her head in
signification that she could not speak, as she saw his lips move in the
utterance of some words, which she supposed addressed to her. The
splendid beauty of her eyes, and the general expression of her

countenance, seemed to act like magic on the Musselman, who, turning
to the auctioneer, bid five hundred piasters, a hundred advance on the
first offer.
At this moment a person wearing the uniform of the Turkish navy,
made his way towards the stand from the centre of the bazaar, where he
had for some minutes been intently regarding the scene, and bid
"Six hundred piasters."
"Seven," said the previous bidder.
"Eight," continued the naval officer.
"Eight fifty," responded the old Turk.
"Nine hundred," said the officer, with a promptness that attracted the
attention of the crowd.
"One thousand piasters," said his competitor, as he continued to regard
her exquisite and beautiful mould, and her features, so like a picture, in
their regular and artistic lines of beauty. It was very plain that the old
Turk felt, as he gazed upon her, so silent yet so beautiful, that she was
richly worth her weight in pearls.
"A thousand piasters," repeated the vender of the slave market, turning
once more to the officer, then added, as he received no encouraging
sign from him, "a thousands piasters, and sold!"
The officer regarded her with much interest, and turned away in evident
disappointment, for the old Turk who had outbid him, had gone beyond
any means that he possessed. The purchaser handed forth the money in
a couple of small bags, and throwing a close veil over the head of the
slave, led her away through the narrow and winding streets of old
Stamboul to the water's side, where they entered a caique that awaited
them, and pulled up the harbor.
Its shooting caiques, its forest of merchantmen, and its hoard of

Turkish war ships; were changed, in a few moments of swift pulling,
for the breathless solitude of the Valley of Sweet Waters, which opens
with a gentle curve from the Golden Horn, and winds away into the
hills towards Belgrade, where the river assumes the character of a
silvery stream, threading its way through a soft and verdant meadow on
either hand, as beautiful in aspect as the Prophet's Paradise. The spot
where the Sultan sends his swift-footed Arabians to graze on the
earliest verdure that decks the face of spring.
It was up this fairy-like passage that the dumb slave was swept in her
master's caique, and by scenes so beautiful as even to enchant her sad
and silent bosom. The Turk marked well the influence of the scenery
upon the Circassian, and slowly stroked his beard with silent
satisfaction at the sight.
The caique soon stopped before a gorgeous palace, in the midst of this
fine plain, and the Turk, by a signal, summoned the guard of eunuchs
from a tent of the Prophet's green, that was pitched near the banks of
the Barbyses, that ran its meandering course through this verdant scene.
It was a princely home, the proudest harem in all this gem of the Orient,
for the old Turk had acted not for himself in the purchase he had made,
but as the agent of a higher will than his own, and the dumb slave was
led to the seraglio of the Sultan.
The old Turk was evidently a privileged body, and following close
upon the heels of the eunuchs, he divested himself of his slippers at the
entrance of the palace, and led the slave before the "Brother of the
Sun."
The monarch was a noble specimen of his race, tall, commanding, and
with a spirit of firmness breathing from his expressive face. His beard
was jetty black, and gave a much older appearance to his features than
belonged to them. He was the child of a seraglio, whose mothers were
chosen for beauty alone, and how could he escape being handsome?
The blood of Circassian upon Circassian was in his veins, and the trace
of their nationality was upon his brow, but there was in the eye a
doomed darkness of expression that caused the beautiful creature
before him to almost tremble with fear.

"Beautiful, indeed," mused the Sultan, as he gazed upon the slave with
undisguised interest; "and how much did she cost us, good Mustapha?"
"One thousand piasters, excellency" answered the agent, with profound
respect.
"A thousand piasters," repeated the monarch, again gazing at the slave.