tine of fairy-like
scenes, and the Sultan's slaves counted not the time that brought to
them but a never varying dull monotony of indolent luxuriance. They
had no intellectual pursuits or tastes, and therefore were but sorry
companions for one whose native intelligence was so prominent a
trait in her character. Thus it was, therefore, having no one with
whom she could truly and honestly sympathize, that Komel preferred
to whisper her thoughts to the birds and flowers, and to fancy that
Aphiz's spirit was near by, smiling upon her the while. What a
strange and dreamy life the Circassian was passing in the Sultan's
harem!

Komel, it is true, mourned for her liberty, and what caged bird is
there that does not!

CHAPTER IX.

THE LOVER'S STRATAGEM.

It was morning in the East, and all things partook of the dewy
freshness of early days.--The busy din of the city was momentarily
increasing, and as the hours advanced, the broad sunlight gilded all
things far and near. It was at this bright and exhilarating hour
that two persons sat together on the silky grass that caps the
summit of Bulgarlu. They had wandered hither, seemingly, to view the
splendid scenery together, and were regarding it with earnest eyes.

How beautiful looked the Turkish capital below them! From Seraglio
Point, seven miles down the coast of Roumelia, the eye followed a
continued wall, and from the same point twenty miles up the
Bosphorus on either shore, stretched one crowded and unbroken city,
with its star-shaped bay in the midst, floating a thousand maritime
crafts, prominent among which were the Turkish men-of-war flaunting
their blood-red flags in the breeze. Far away over the Sea of
Mannora their eyes rested on a snow-white cloud at the edge of the
horizon. It was Mount Olympus, the fabulous residence of the gods.
In this far-off scene, too, lay Bithynia, Cappadocia, Paphlagonia,
and the entire scene of the apostle Paul's travels in Asia Minor.
Then their eyes wandered back once more and rested now on the old
Fortress of the Seven Towers, where fell the emperor Constantine,
and where Othman the second was strangled.

Between the Seven Towers and the Golden Horn, were the seven hills
of ancient Stamboul, the towering arches of the aqueduct of Valens
crossing from one to another, and the swelling domes and gold-tipped
minarets of a hundred imperial mosques crowning their summits. And
there too was Seraglio Point, a spot of enchanting lov