Free Lord Byron's Novel by John Crowley

not—the sight of whom sent through his being a flash of dread or horror. To what might this be attributed? The man was huge, indeed—even folded up as he was upon the low seat this was evident—but Ali had known larger fighters; and his head-cloth was done up in the Turkish fashion—but the Vizier’s was too; and beneath his capote the brass buttons of his red tunic might be seen—but the capote itself was not so different from that which Ali himself wore. Then was it a presentiment of all that lay ahead, that he was to do, and to bear, because of the man? No—it was simply that the stranger’s face was clean-shaven . He was the first grown man without moustaches that Ali had ever seen, and Albanians have a horror of such—the Bogey in the tales their grand-dames tell to children, who comes to eat them up, has just such a white and hairless face as Ali now looked upon—as looked upon him with interested eye.
    The man was John Porteous, Lord Sane, it need not be said—his the eye, and the interest—and it is appropriate, or at least convenient, here to describe in greater detail the appearance of one who was to affect so singularly the youth who now stood unmoving within his fixing gaze. Those characters cruel or haughty who proceed through the pages of our romances (and the poets’ pages, too, be it admitted!) and do deeds of dreadful note are often as not painted as though to persuade Mr Kean to portray them upon the stage—the tense and braided muscle, the great eyes that flash darkly, quivering visage, nose like a hawk’s beak, red mouth cruelly cut, at once sneering and sensual, &c., &c. The face of ‘Satan’ Porteous was not so: it was, to speak truly, as round and bland as a pudding, and his eyes small and shrouded by pale lids, wherein but a crumb of glitter could be seen—the which made them the more horrid to look upon—for the eyes had a cold alertness like a sleepy reptile’s, when they slid in one’s direction; they chilled without thrilling, and induced a horrid lassitude in those—a large class—upon whom their possessor had some design.
    The Pacha summoned the frozen lad, and bade him sit upon the divan between himself and the wondrous beardless monster, who put upon Ali’s shoulder a hand heavy as though it were a leaden statue’s, and spoke words to him and to the Pacha that Ali could not interpret. The Pacha smiled, and nodded, and hummed, pleased at the scene; he took the man’s right hand, and placed Ali’s within it, and closed them both in his own. ‘My brave Ali!’ said he. ‘There has come a wonderful providence into thy life, by the will of Allah. Behold here beside thee thy father!’
    So startled was Ali that he snatched his hand from within the others’, as though it had been nearly caught in a rat-trap. This occasioned laughter from the older men, who were not just then in a mood to be offended, and were as well delighted with the boy’s discomfiture. When their glee was past, Ali was told that he was indeed the Englishman’s son—the Sigma indited upon his arm was identical to that on a Seal-ring the Englishman wore, in indication of the name he had inherited. Moreover and more wonderfully—the Pacha smiling said—the Englishman had decided to take Ali back with him to the land of Britain, which was a small grey island far away, but one with many ships and guns; and there he would be the Englishman’s son and heir, and have wealth and honours beyond telling, and was not this a fine thing, and were not the dispositions of Allah to be praised?
    Ali in horrified amazement leapt up from his place upon the Pacha’s sopha—dropt to his knees before the old sinner, and lifted his hands in supplication. ‘But thou alone art my father!’ quoth he. ‘I am thy son, if love and devotion have power to make me such. Send me not from thy presence—for have I not been faithful, and put away all old loyalties whatever, and pledged to thee my arm and my soul?’
    Yet the