You long for some signs of life, and
tread the ground more heavily, as though you would wake the
sleepers with the heel of your boot; but the foot falls noiseless
upon the crumbling soil of an Eastern city, and silence follows you
still. Again and again you meet turbans, and faces of men, but
they have nothing for you--no welcome--no wonder--no wrath--no
scorn--they look upon you as we do upon a December's fall of snow--
as a "seasonable," unaccountable, uncomfortable work of God, that
may have been sent for some good purpose, to be revealed hereafter.
Some people had come down to meet us with an invitation from the
Pasha, and we wound our way up to the castle. At the gates there
were groups of soldiers, some smoking, and some lying flat like
corpses upon the cool stones. We went through courts, ascended
steps, passed along a corridor, and walked into an airy,
whitewashed room, with an European clock at one end of it, and
Moostapha Pasha at the other; the fine, old, bearded potentate
looked very like Jove--like Jove, too, in the midst of his clouds,
for the silvery fumes of the narghile {2} hung lightly circling
round him.
The Pasha received us with the smooth, kind, gentle manner that
belongs to well-bred Osmanlees; then he lightly clapped his hands,
and instantly the sound filled all the lower end of the room with
slaves; a syllable dropped from his lips which bowed all heads, and
conjured away the attendants like ghosts (their coming and their
going was thus swift and quiet, because their feet were bare, and
they passed through no door, but only by the yielding folds of a
purder).
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