ed me again and again, as one minute she would hold me
off to look at me, and the next strain me in her embraces.

"You are the image of your father, Pedro," observed she, mournfully,
"but God's will be done. If he has taken away, he also hath given, and
truly grateful am I for his bounty." When we had in some degree
recovered our agitation, I entreated her to narrate to me the history of
my father of which I had heard but little from the good brother Anselmo,
and she repeated to me those events of her youthful days which she had
communicated before.

"But you have not been introduced to Clara: the naughty girl little
thought that she was carrying on an amour with her own cousin."

When Donna Celia called her down, I made no scruple of pressing the dear
girl to my heart, and implanting a kiss upon her lips: with our eyes
beaming with love and joy, we sat down upon the sofa, I in the centre,
with a hand locked in the hand of each. "And now, my dear Pedro, I am
anxious to hear the narrative of your life," said Donna Celia: "that it
has been honourable to yourself, I feel convinced." Thanking her for her
good opinion, which I hoped neither what had passed, or might in future
occur, would be the means of removing, I commenced the history of my
life in the following words.

* * * * *

"Commenced the history of your life?" interrupted the pacha. "Does the
slave laugh at our beards? What then is all this you have been telling
us?"

"The truth, your highness," replied the Spaniard. "What I am about to
tell, is the history of my life, which I invented to deceive the old
lady Donna Celia, and which is all false."

"I understand, Mustapha, this kafir is a regular Kessehgou,[3] he makes
one story breed another; but it is late, see that he attends to-morrow
afternoon, Bero! Go, infidel, the muezzin calls to prayers."

[3] Eastern story-teller.

The Spaniard quitted the sublime presence, and in obedience to the call
of the muezzin, the pacha and Mustapha paid their customary evening
devotions--to the bottle.

Chapter IV

The next day the Spanish slave was summoned to continue his narrative.

"Your sublime highness of course recollects where I lest off yesterday
evening," commenced the slave.

"Perfectly well," replied the pacha, "you left off at the beginning of
your story; but I hope you will finish it this evening, as I have
already forgotten a great deal of what you said."