hem into the Nile.

"Bid the slave-merchant enter," says the Turkish voluptuary with a wave
of his hand. Mesrour conducts the slave-merchant into my lord's
presence; he brings a veiled female with him. He removes the veil. A
thrill of applause bursts through the house. It is Mrs. Winkworth (she
was a Miss Absolom) with the beautiful eyes and hair. She is in a
gorgeous oriental costume; the black braided locks are twined with
innumerable jewels; her dress is covered over with gold piastres. The
odious Mahometan expresses himself charmed by her beauty. She falls
down on her knees and entreats him to restore her to the mountains
where she was born, and where her Circassian lover is still deploring
the absence of his Zuleikah. No entreaties will move the obdurate
Hassan. He laughs at the notion of the Circassian bridegroom. Zuleikah
covers her face with her hands and drops down in an attitude of the
most beautiful despair. There seems to be no hope for her, when--when
the Kislar Aga appears.

The Kislar Aga brings a letter from the Sultan. Hassan receives and
places on his head the dread firman. A ghastly terror seizes him,
while on the Negro's face (it is Mesrour again in another costume)
appears a ghastly joy. "Mercy! mercy!" cries the Pasha: while the
Kislar Aga, grinning horribly, pulls out--a bow-string.

The curtain draws just as he is going to use that awful weapon. Hassan
from within bawls out, "First two syllables"--and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley,
who is going to act in the charade, comes forward and compliments Mrs.
Winkworth on the admirable taste and beauty of her costume.

The second part of the charade takes place. It is still an Eastern
scene. Hassan, in another dress, is in an attitude by Zuleikah, who is
perfectly reconciled to him. The Kislar Aga has become a peaceful black
slave. It is sunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their heads
eastwards and bow to the sand. As there are no dromedaries at hand,
the band facetiously plays "The Camels are coming." An enormous
Egyptian head figures in the scene. It is a musical one--and, to the
surprise of the oriental travellers, sings a comic song, composed by
Mr. Wagg. The Eastern voyagers go off dancing, like Papageno and the
Moorish King in The Magic Flute. "Last two syllables," roars the head.

The last act opens. It is a Grecian tent this time. A tall and
stalwart man reposes on a couch there. Above him hang his helmet and
shield. Ther