that he had
received it from the owner as a token of friendship, and that he had
bidden him, when necessity should dictate, to show it at the
seraglio gates, and he would be admitted to his presence.

"God is great!" said the officer, as he looked upon the purse with a
profound reverence, astonishing the humble wanderer by the respect
he showed to the jewelled bag.

"And what place is this?" he asked of the officer, as hie looked
curiously about him.

"By the beard of the Prophet, young man, do you not know?" asked the
official.

"I do not."

"Not know whose purse you hold, and in whose grounds you stand!"
reiterated the soldier.

"Not I."

"Allah akbar! it is the palace of the defender of the faith, Sultan
Mahomet!"

"The Sultan!" exclaimed the lone wanderer, struck dumb with
amazement.

"The Brother of the Sun," repeated the official, with a profound
salaam as he repeated the name, while at the same time he noted the
astonishment of the stranger.

"The Sultan," repeated the new comer, musing to himself, "rides he
forth alone?"

"At times, yes, when it suits him. No harm can come to him--he is
sacred, and need not fear."

"Perhaps not," answered the other, as he recalled the scene on the
borders of the forest.

At the singular piece of intelligence which he had received, the
stranger seemed to hesitate. He surely would not have come hither
had he known to whom he was about to apply for assistance. Could it
be the Sultan that he so opportunely aided? If so, he surely need
not fear to meet him again; perhaps he might even venture still to
tell him honestly his story, and ask at least for advice in the
pursuit of the object which had brought him to Constantinople. In
this half undecided mood he stood musing for some minutes, and then
with a struggle for resolution, bade the officer lead him to his
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
woul