A handsome bronzed Asiatic Turk, not having evidently had time to make all necessary arrangements for flight, had accommodated his seven wives as best he could; two had secured the shelter of a latticed sedan chair, while the others, alternating between horse and camel-back, adapted themselves to the situation as best they could; indeed, those in the sedan alighted from time to time when a halt was made, and it was then the distinctive positions of those wives in relation to that Pasha were most noticeable. Of the seven, four were really more or less attendants on the remaining three, while the actual favourite, the wife of wives, the queen of the harem, held amongst these three a distinctive position. She was generally the happy possessor of a French parasol. I don't mean to infer that this is the distinguishing badge of an Oriental favourite, but when, in far-off up-country villages and small townships, the local Kiamakans and others can secure one of those much-coveted Parisian or Viennese sunshades, it becomes as a matter of right the property of her who takes first rôle in the Pasha's household.
When I came across the little group which forms the subject of my illustration, they were halting for refreshment; the Pasha calmly smoking his mid-day nargilé and sipping black coffee, while his wives were refreshing themselves with sweetmeats.
I couldn't help noticing, as far as good taste in personal appearance was concerned, that Pasha's choice of a favourite; her yashmack, much more gauzy than the rest, revealing most charming features, while her figure, judging from the folds of her voluminous draperies, was of perfect contour.
Fate, apparently, had no horrors for this much-married magnate: perhaps, when he looked around, and his wives, with one accord, said, or seemed to suggest: "We are seven, to say nothing of our retainers, together with our dogs, cats, and parrots," he felt that he was beyond its reach. He was the very embodiment of philosophy, as he stood there calmly surveying his surroundings, lazily smoking his sweet-scented nargilé; it takes a good deal to rouse the average Turk to action, but when his blood is up, he's a demon. This Pasha will however retreat leisurely, till he touches the coast, when, with all his impedimenta round about him, he will make his way in the first available ship to Constantinople—at least, so he hopes—Kismet!
***
Sanctuary.
Whistler's butterfly, whose flutterings are represented by the splutterings from that eccentric artist-author's pen, would find happy hunting-grounds on these pages, where incident follows incident regardless of place or period. Thus would I now ask you to return with me for the nonce to Spain, that we may indulge together in more impressions by the way.
Under certain circumstances there is something singularly eloquent about absolute silence. I have, on several occasions in my wandering career, been infinitely
