‘Blockhead! come on, and see,’ quoth Baba; while Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile Upon the metamorphosis in view,— ‘Farewell!’ they mutually exclaim’d: ‘this soil Seems fertile in adventures strange and new; One ’s turn’d half Mussulman, and one a maid, By this old black enchanter’s unsought aid.’ ‘Farewell!’ said Juan: ‘should we meet no more, I wish you a good appetite.’—‘Farewell!’ Replied the other; ‘though it grieves me sore; When we next meet we’ll have a tale to tell: We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. Keep your good name; though Eve herself once fell.’ ‘Nay,’ quoth the maid, ‘the Sultan’s self shan’t carry me, Unless his highness promises to marry me. And thus they parted, each by separate doors; Baba led Juan onward room by room Through glittering galleries and o’er marble floors, Till a gigantic portal through the gloom, Haughty and huge, along the distance lowers; And wafted far arose a rich perfume: It seem’d as though they came upon a shrine, For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. The giant door was broad, and bright, and high, Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise; Warriors thereon were battling furiously; Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish’d lies; There captives led in triumph droop the eye, And in perspective many a squadron flies: It seems the work of times before the line Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. This massy portal stood at the wide close Of a huge hall, and on its either side Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied In mockery to the enormous gate which rose O’er them in almost pyramidic pride: The gate so splendid was in all its features, You never thought about those little creatures, Until you nearly trod on them, and then You started back in horror to survey The wondrous hideousness of those small men, Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor grey, But an extraneous mixture, which no pen Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may; They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and dumb— Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. Their duty was—for they were strong, and though They look’d so little, did strong things at times— To ope this door, which they could really do, The hinges being as smooth as Rogers’ rhymes; And now and then, with tough strings of the bow, As is the custom of those Eastern climes, To give some rebel Pacha a cravat; For mutes are generally used for that. They spoke by signs—that is, not spoke at all; And looking like two incubi, they glared As Baba with his fingers made them fall To heaving back the portal folds: it scared Juan a moment, as this pair so small With shrinking serpent optics on him stared; It was as if their little looks could poison Or fascinate whome’er they fix’d their eyes on.