At length, however, the auspicious moment really did arrive, when the Kislar Agha was himself the first to hasten the departure of the Princess. The procession was the very triumph of mystery. All the high-born beauties of Stamboul were to pass us by, and we were only to imagine the loveliness on which we were to have no opportunity of looking. The Sultan’s Band opened the march, and executed with great precision a piece of martial music, composed for the occasion by their talented leader Donizetti; a regiment of cavalry followed, and was succeeded in its turn by a gorgeous train of Pashas, among whom rode the bridegroom; and then came the European carriage of the Sultan, drawn by four bay horses, each led by a page in a scarlet and gold uniform. This was succeeded by the Imperial State Coach, of silver gilt, the raised cornice above the roof inlaid with cornelians, agates, and jaspers, the magnificent gift of the Emperor of Russia to his Turkish ally—the gilded lattices, through which gleamed the jealous curtains of rose-coloured silk, were closely shut; and the Imperial Bride was the sole tenant of the costly vehicle. This carriage, which was drawn by six stately horses from the personal stud of the Autocrat, was followed by that in which the Princess had been accustomed to drive on state occasions; the windows were thrown back, and the curtains undrawn—it was empty. Next came the Sultana-Mother, the Princess Salihè, and the younger sister of the bride, a sweet-looking girl of eleven or twelve years of age, who sat beside her veiled relatives in a heavy head-dress of black velvet, overcharged with diamonds; but whose fair young face laughed out in loveliness beneath the hideous disfigurement. These were succeeded by a second Russian carriage, drawn by four horses similar to those in the State Coach, an offering of Russian policy to Achmet Pasha, whose Buyuk Hanoum was within, attended by three female slaves.