"Perfectly well," replied the pacha, "you left off at the beginning of your story; but I hope you will finish it this evening, as I have already forgotten a great deal of what you said." "Your highness may recollect that I was seated--" "Yes, in our presence," interrupted the pacha; "such was our condescension to a Giaour. Now go on with your story." "With due submission to your highness, I was seated on a sofa, between my mother Donna Celia and my mistress Donna Clara." "Very true; I recollect now that you were." "A hand clasped in the hand of each." "Exactly," replied the pacha, impatiently. "And was about to tell a story of my own invention, to deceive the old lady my mother." "Anna senna! curses on your mother!" cried the pacha, in an angry tone. "Sit down and continue your story. Is a pacha nothing? Is the lion to be chafed by a jackal? Wallah el Nebi! By God and the Prophet! do you laugh at our beard? The story!" "The story requested by your highness," replied the slave, with great coolness, "was commenced in the following words." STORY OF THE MONK. What occurred during my infancy, my dearest mother, I do not recollect; but I can retrace to the age of seven years, when I found myself in company with a number of others, from the squalling infant of a few days old, up to about my own age. I also recollect that our fare was indifferent, and our punishment severe. "Poor child!" exclaimed Donna Celia, pressing my hand which was still locked in hers. I continued there until the age of ten, when an old lady who came to the asylum, took a fancy to me; for I often heard it remarked, that I was a very handsome boy, although I have rather grown out of my good looks lately, Clara.