im must die.

There could be no hole-and-corner business about this; he must die, and
when his murder had been accomplished she would boldly avow to her lover
what she had done and take the consequences, believing in her power over
him to come scatheless out of the adventure. In those days, when human life
was so cheap, she might have asked for the death of almost any one, and her
whim would have been gratified by a lover who had not hesitated to put to
death his own son at her dictation. But with Ibrahim it was another matter;
he was the familiar of the Sultan, his _alter ego_ in fact, It says much
for the nerve of the Sultana that she dared so greatly on this memorable
and lamentable occasion.

On March 5th, 1536, Ibrahim, went to the royal seraglio, and, following his
ancient custom, was admitted to the table of his master, sleeping after the
meal at his side. At least so it was supposed, but none knew save those
engaged in the murder what passed on that fatal night; the next day his
dead body lay in the house of the Sultan.

Across the floor of jasper, in that palace which was a fitting residence
for one rightly known as "The Magnificent," the blood of Ibrahim flowed to
the feet of Roxalana. The disordered clothing, the terrible expression of
the face of the dead man, the gaping wounds which he had received, bore
witness that there had taken place a grim struggle before that iron frame
and splendid intellect had been levelled with the dust. This much leaked
out afterwards, as such things will leak out, and then the Sultana took
Soliman into her chamber and gazed up into his eyes. The man was stunned by
the immensity of the calamity which had befallen him and his kingdom, but
his manhood availed him not against the wiles of this Circe. Ibrahim had
been foully done to death in his own palace, and this woman clinging so
lovingly around his neck now was the murderess. The heart's blood of his
best friend was coagulating on the threshold of his own apartment when he
forgave her by whom his murder had been accomplished. This was the
vengeance of Roxalana, and who shall say that it was not complete?

The Ottoman Empire was the poorer by the loss of its greatest man, the
jealousy of the Sultana was assuaged, the despot who had permitted this
unavenged murder was still on the throne, thrall to the woman who had first
murdered his son and then his friend and minister. But the deed carried
with it the evil consequences which