In Istamboul I was soon disposed of, my fair skin and
accomplishments as a writer and a singer of Persian songs fetching a
high price.
"It is no uncommon thing for boys to be stolen and sold in this way. A
rich pacha will pay almost anything. The fate of such slaves is not
generally a happy one." Isaacs paused a moment, and drew in two or three
long breaths of smoke. "Do you see that bright star in the south?" he
said, pointing with his long jewel-set mouthpiece.
"Yes. It must be Sirius."
"That is my star. Do you believe in the agency of the stars in human
affairs? Of course you do not; you are a European: how should you? But
to proceed. The stars, or the fates or Kali, or whatever you like to
term your kismet, your portion of good and evil, allotted me a somewhat
happier existence than generally falls to the share of young slaves in
Roum. I was bought by an old man of great wealth and of still greater
learning, who was so taken with my proficiency in Arabic and in writing
that he resolved to make of me a pupil instead of a servant to carry his
coffee and pipe, or a slave to bear the heavier burden of his vices.
Nothing better could have happened to me. I was installed in his house
and treated with exemplary kindness, though he kept me rigorously at
work with my books.
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