It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. On the right of the postern against the wall was affixed a small grating, sustaining the debtor's box; and any pleasure which the passerby might derive from contemplating the splendid structure above described was damped at beholding the pale faces and squalid figures of the captives across the bars of its strongly-grated windows. ‘Been led up the garden path by that confounded rapscallion. I’ve no name for it yet.
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