[Illustration: "THREE HIDEOUS NEGROES."]

"Where does this one come from?" asked one of them, after examining me
attentively.

"She is a Circassian. She has cost me a lot of money, for I bought her
four years ago and have been bringing her up carefully. She is very
intelligent and will be very pretty. _Bir elmay_ (quite a diamond)," she
added, in a whisper. "Feliknaz, dance for us, and show us how graceful
you can be."

I drew back, blushing, and murmured, "There is no music for me to dance
to."

"That doesn't matter at all. I'll sing something for you. Come, commence
at once!"

I bowed silently and went back to the end of the room, and then came
forward again dancing, bowing to the right and left on my way, whilst my
mistress beat time on an old drum and sang the air of the _yassedi_
dance in a hoarse voice. In spite of my pride and my terror, my dancing
appeared to please these men.

"We will certainly buy Feliknaz," said one of them; "how much will you
take for her?"

"Twelve Kesatchies[A]! not a fraction less."

The negro drew a large purse out of his pocket and counted the money
over to my mistress. As soon as she had received it she turned to me and
said:--

"You ought to be thankful, Feliknaz, for you are a lucky girl. Here you
are, the first time you have been shown, bought for the wealthy Said
Pasha, and you are to wait upon a charming Hanoum of your own age. Mind
and be obedient, Feliknaz; it is the only thing for a slave."

I bent to kiss my mistress's hand, but she raised my face and kissed my
forehead. This caress was too much for me at such a moment, and my eyes
filled with tears. An intense craving for affection is always felt by
all who are desolate. Orphans and slaves especially know this to their
cost.

The negroes laughed at my sensitiveness, and pushed me towards the door,
one of them saying, "You've got a soft heart and a face of marble, but
you will change as you get older."

I did not attempt to reply, but just walked along in silence. It would
be impossible to give an idea of the anguish I felt when walking through
the Stamboul streets, my hand held by one of these men. I wondered what
kind of a harem I was going to be put into. "Oh, Allah!" I cried, and I
lifted my eyes towards Him, and He surely heard my unuttered prayer, for
is not Allah the protector of all who are wretched and forlorn?

[Footnote A: One Kesatchie is about L4 10s.]

II.

The old slave-woman had told me