een windows, or behind mirrors, or beneath the
ceiling between two stories, and these doors could not be opened by
keys, but turned upon invisible hinges set in motion by hidden
screws, and they closed so hermetically as to leave not the slightest
orifice behind them.

Ali Pasha stood there in the banqueting-chamber unobserved by any one.
He stood beside a huge Corinthian column, and here hung a black board
indicating the direction in which Mecca lay. He had no fear that any
one would look thither. That place, towards which every truly
believing Mussulman must turn when he prays, was carefully avoided by
every eye, for fear it should encounter the golden letters which
sparkle on the walls of the Kaaba.[6]

[Footnote 6: The chief sanctuary of the Mussulmans standing in the
midst of the great mosque at Mecca.]

For now is the time for enjoyment. There is no need of a heavenly
Paradise, for Paradise is already here below. There is no need to
inquire of either Muhammad or the angel Izrafil concerning the wine
which flows from the roots of the Tuba-tree; far more fiery, far more
stimulating, is the wine which flashes in glass and goblet. The houris
may hide their white bosoms and their rosy faces, for what are they
compared with the earthly angels whose mundane charms intoxicate the
hearts of mortals? Truly Muhammad was but an indifferent prophet, he
did not understand how to arrange paradise; let him but regard the
arrangements of Mukhtar Bey--they will show him how that sort of thing
ought to be managed.

Muhammad imagined that the embraces of seven and seventy houris would
make an enraptured Moslem eternally happy. Why, the bungler forgot the
best part of it. Would it not be more satisfactory if now and then,
say once in a thousand years or so, the Moslems were to exchange their
own houris for those of their neighbors? In this way the aroma of
brand-new kisses would prevent their raptures from growing stale, and
the Paradise of Muhammad would be worth something after all. With all
eternity before him, a man would scarcely mind waiting for his own
wives for a paltry millennium or two while he enjoyed the wives of his
neighbors, and when he returned to his seven and seventy original
damsels again, what a pleasant reunion it would be!

Now the Prophet had forgotten to introduce this novelty into his own
Paradise, and Mukhtar Bey was the happy man to whom the fairy Malach
Taraif whispered the idea during the fast preced