As soon as the company had broke up, Mangogul gave his hand to the favorite, and conduced her to her apartment. She was far from having that lively cheerful air, which seldom quitted her. She had lost considerably at play, and the effect of the dreadful ring had plunged her into a pensiveness, out of which she was not yet thoroughly recovered. She knew the Sultan’s curiosity, and she had not sufficient confidence in the promises of a man less amorous than despotic, to be free from uneasiness. “What ails you, my soul’s delight?” said Mangogul. “You are pensive.”

“I played with bad luck without example,” answered Mirzoza. “I lost the possibility. I had twelve tableaux, and I don’t think I mark’d three times.”

“That is vexatious,” replied Mangogul; “but what think you of my secret?”