Mohammed Ali and His House by Luise von Muhlbach (page 2)

name was Hakem. To him it did not seem enough to be the descendant of Mohammed, of our great prophet–he wished to be king and prophet himself. He desired to found a new religion, and, because the inhabitants of El-Kahera would not bow down before him in the dust, and abandon their prophet, Mohammed, for his sake, he caused the one half of the beautiful city of El-Kahera, the Victorious, to be laid in ashes, and he allowed his wild hordes to plunder and rob the other half. He rejoiced in this, and imagined Allah would be contented. He said, too, that Allah conversed with him each day, and gave him instructions with his own lips. It was for this purpose that he went daily into the mountains of Mokatan, which rise on the banks of the Nile, near the city; and there he, a second Moses, communed, as he declared, with Allah.

“But one day he did not return from the mountains, and when his janizaries sought him they found him lying dead on the ground, pierced with daggers.

“The Fatimites had ruled over Egypt for two hundred years. Their glory was now at an end, and Allah sent the unbelievers as a scourge to punish those who had dared to set themselves above the prophet, to punish the sons of Hakem who had declared himself to be the prophet.

“The unbelievers, who called themselves Christians, came, therefore, with a cross on their arms, and a cross on their banners, conquered El-Kahera, and levied a tribute of many millions of piasters. But the Caliph Addad, a son of Hakem, called to his assistance Noureddin, the ruler of the land of Alep, who sent him a powerful army, and the army of the Christian dogs was scattered like dust before the winds.

“Yet Addad reaped no blessing from the assistance thus called to his side–the son was to be punished for the misdeeds and tyranny of his father Hakem. A strong and mighty man had come with Noureddin’s army; he made himself Addad’s vizier, their commander-in-chief, and Addad died of mortification. Saladin the son of Ayoub, assumed his place, and became the ruler of Egypt, and founded the dynasty of the Ayoubites.”

CHAPTER VI

THE MAMELUKES.

The scha-er paused a moment, and directed a glance of his wild black eyes at the audience surrounding him. The men regarded him with profound gravity, and nodded their heads in approval, and requested him to proceed.

Rejoicing at his success, he continued in a loud voice: “But the rule of the Ayoubites did not last long; it was even more brief than that of the Fatimites.

“The reign of the ten sultans distinguished the short and glorious history of their house, which, above all, loved show and splendor. The palaces of these proud rulers of El-Kahera were crowded with servants and slaves.

“It was at this time that the Mogul, Genghis Khan, assembled all the Tartar hordes of his land under his banner. They followed him to the banks of the Tigris, and nothing but terror and desolation, ashes and bones, were found where they had passed. Burning and destroying, they marched to the banks of the Caspian Sea. Lamentations, followed, and numberless corpses encumbered the track of his army. At last, weary of their bloody work, the Mongols stopped to rest in beautiful Circassia.

“Here they purchased slaves for their masters. One Ayoubite alone purchased twelve thousand young men: with them he repaired to Asia Minor, where he dressed them in rich, glittering garments, and called them his Mamelukes, that is, ‘those he had acquired and paid for.’ And now, listen, ye men of Cavalla, in this manner there arose in history a new tribe, a new race, and it gave itself the name of Mamelukes. Even the sultan formed for his service a corps out of their race; they became mighty and valiant, increased from generation to generation, and before them rulers trembled. Yes, even the Sultan at Stamboul feared their might.

“The Mamelukes, however, dethroned the last Ayoubite, the one who had purchased them. The Mamelukes vanquished all the Christian dogs who came to the holy land to fight for what they call the holy grave. They murdered the last sultan. They then placed on the throne one of their own race, a Mameluke. And observe, ye men of Cavalla, with this begins a new era in the history of this land: the Mamelukes mount the throne, and make themselves masters of Egypt.

“But upon this fearful deed, follow disorder, revolt, terror, blood, and death! I could tell you much more of the atrocities done by the Mamelukes, unheard of as yet by any of you, and such as the history of no other land can exhibit. I could relate to you the histories of all the other nations of the world, but if ye listened, ye men of Cavalla, to the history of the Mamelukes of the last century, the events of all the other lands of the world would sound to you, compared with the deeds that have been done in the land of the Egyptians since the year 620, after the birth of the great prophet Mohammed, like nursery-tales. On the grave of the prophet sat, her features shrouded in a bloody veil, the holy spirit of the history of the world, sadly recording the atrocious deeds of the cruel, implacable forty-seven tyrants who reigned on the bloody throne of El-Kahera during two hundred and sixty-three years. Seventeen of them were murdered, and eighteen of their successors dethroned. The rule of each lasting but a few moons. The tyrant was always hurled down by the tyrant.

“One would have supposed that the Mamelukes would have shown more love and reverence for the princes of their own race than for foreign rulers, but the reverse was the case. The Mamelukes believed that they were under no obligation to respect a prince of their own race more than themselves. They raised their hands threateningly against every one who dared to consider himself something better than they. They considered themselves the advisers of the princes of their own race, and without their approval, these princes could undertake nothing whatever. And worse than this ambition, were the machinations and plundering of the intriguing men who surrounded the throne of the Mamelukes. Even Allah’s wrath was aroused by this corruption, and the prophet grew angry. Allah punished them for their horrid deeds, and sent down famine, pestilence, and misery, upon the degraded land. The people lay in dust and ashes. In their despair they wrung their hands, and implored Allah to rescue them from this misery and torment.

“At last, after two and a half centuries, Allah sent them relief through the Ottomans.

“They could not be worse than the Mamelukes; for nothing on earth could be worse; the dagger was the only law of these slaves, who called nothing their own, and had neither family ties, fatherland, nor religion.

“Had they not come from Circassia? Had they not been purchased as slaves and brought to Egypt? Had they not been Christians, and were they not of Christian descent? But they had been forced, the slaves, to assume the holy religion of Mohammed. The prophet, however, does not incline his ear to enforced service. He who does not willingly lay down his faith and fidelity upon the altar can expect no blessing from Allah. The Mamelukes learned little, except to read the Koran, to handle the sword, to ride, and to be pitiless against everybody. They also learned to flatter the master who had purchased them, to bow down in the dust before him, and to be nothing for him but a mere tool that has ho honor, no thought, and no sensibility of its own. When the Mamelukes were fully matured, had become expert in using their swords, and managing their steeds, and when their chins became covered with beard, the masters who bad bought them made them freemen, and gave them the rank and title of a kachef, an officer who was to lead and command the others. The, kachef was the lieutenant of those who had not become free. They gave him a salary, or made him a confidant or assistant. When he got thus far, had become free, and been made a kachef, a career of ambition, but also of intrigue, trickery, and treason, opened itself before him. His shrewdness was irresistible, his strong arm acomplished all things.

“The kachef did homage to his first master only, but, if the latter were dead, and the Mameluke had become a freeman, hey could attain to the throne through blood and murder. All the vices, with their interminable train, had made their entrance into El-Kahera. The new ruler well understood how to acquire riches, power, and respect, by force, and from a kachef he made himself bey. From the proceeds of his booty he purchased a swarm of slaves, who were compelled to follow him. He was only a military power. The Mameluke princes measured his rank and influence by the number of followers in his train when he passed through the streets of Alexandria. There were kachefs who owned a thousand slaves, and beys who possessed two thousand. By this you can judge the wealth of these Mameluke beys, for each of these servants cost them two hundred patras. But this expense was the smallest. There were, besides, the women, the beautiful Arabian horses, the splendid weapons, the Damascene blades, the glittering jewels, the costly cashmere shawls: all this belonged to the household of a Mameluke bey. The means by which he acquired all this were robbery, trickery, blood, and murder. Whatever was bad and vicious, corrupt and shameful, this the Mameluke practised without fear or hesitation. His virtue was that intrepidity, that courage, that boldness, that recoils from nothing, from no danger, from no abyss; that yields to nothing, and to which nothing is sacred. But the slaves willingly submitted to a brave master, and greeted him as a hero.

“They galloped through the streets on their proud steeds, despising those who walked. When drawn up before the enemy on their war- horses, they bore down upon them boldly, and scattered them to the winds. But if the enemy were able to resist the force of their first fierce attack, they turned their horses and galloped away in wild flight.

“Such was the state of things when two hundred years ago the Ottomans marched with large armies into Egypt, to combat and vanquish the haughty Mamelukes.

“And now the time selected by Allah to punish the insolent race of the Mamelukes and their rulers who were seated on the throne of Egypt had come.

“The nations one by one submitted to the rule of these sons of Mohammed. After protracted struggles they had established a united empire on the banks of the Bosporus, and had built the proud city of Stamboul. The son of Mohammed governed as an illustrious ruler, until at last the Christian dogs came and conquered the magnificent city, and took up their abode in the shining palaces built by the last emperors of the house of the Comnenes. In the city of Constantinople, as they have named our beautiful Stamboul, they resided. A glittering throne was erected there; but the green flag of the prophet no longer fluttered from the minarets of the mosque, which they called the ‘Church of the holy Sophia.’

“When the great Selim I. heard of the deeds of the Mamelukes, his zeal and his love for the prophet impelled him to restore his holy kingdom, and he marched with a mighty army into Egypt, to punish the wicked who were in arms against the prophet. He marched through Armenia, Mesopotamia, and Syria, into Egypt. Terror and lamentation were in his train; before him nations bowed down in the dust. He advanced victoriously, made himself master of Aleppo, and marched on to storm the sacred El-Kahera, which they now call Cairo. The Mamelukes defended themselves long and desperately, until they at last succumbed to superior numbers.

“But tranquillity was not yet restored to Egypt; the Mameluke prince, Tournan Bey, stole into the city at midnight, and with his Mamelukes murdered the entire Turkish garrison. Filled with wrath the great Selim returned and laid siege to the city. It held out for thirteen days and nights, but after fierce struggles was at last compelled to yield. Selim punished them terribly; they were all made prisoners, and Tournan was hanged in the midst of the city. Selim entered the city as its conqueror and ruler.

“You will suppose that Egypt now at last became tranquil and that the Mamelukes bowed down submissively before the great sultan, before the green flag of the prophet that floated in triumph from the citadel. So it would have been, had not those Mamelukes who had survived the fearful slaughter done among their ranks, brooded on vengeance. But I tell you, so long as there shall be one Mameluke left in the world, so long will he do battle with his sword; he is not to be vanquished, unless indeed he be trodden under foot as a venomous serpent, and destroyed forever.

“The noble Selim had magnanimously omitted to do this. He allowed the Mamelukes to take the oath of fidelity, supposing they would keep it. He then made all Egypt a province of the Turkish Empire, and returned to the banks of the Bosporus. He came home, a victorious hero, covered with honor, and the whole empire received him with exultation, and peace and happiness returned with him to Stamboul. Over in Egypt, however, things were no longer looking so peaceful, although the noble Selim had been so generous to the Mamelukes that he had not only given them their lives, but also accorded them a portion of their former power. He had desired to have two powers in the government that should watch each other, and therefore the great and wise ruler ordered that twenty-four Mameluke officials should be appointed to share the government with his own Turkish officials. In the same manner as the sultan appoints a pacha, or governor, had the Mamelukes also appointed a chief. This chief was called Sheik-el-Belad, and his power was equal to that of the pacha. He had seven adjutants, the odjaklis, who commanded the seven corps of which the Mameluke army consisted. And, I say to you, the Mamelukes were more powerful in El-gahera than are the pachas in Turkish cities. Their strifes and feuds were such, that those were among the unhappiest of Egypt’s days.

“And now, hearken to the dreadful conclusion. I will narrate to you what has taken place in Egypt in this century. The Mamelukes overthrew the rule of the Turkish grand-sultan, under the leadership of the bloodthirsty Ali, the new bey who stood at the head of the Mamelukes. He drove out the sultan’s pacha, and announced through him to Selim, ‘that the Turkish rule was at an end, and that Egypt was again free, he having driven out the Turks with the edge of the sword.’ And Egypt, the rebellious province, was for a time again free; that is to say, enslaved by the Mameluke Bey Ali, who attempted to extend his power further and further. He sought to form alliances even with the enemies of Selim, even with those who did not believe in the holy prophet. He even sought, with flattery and entreaties, to prevail on the grandees of the republic of Venice to furnish him with assistance against the aggressions of the Turks. He drew his sword and drove our armies even unto Mecca in Arabia, possessed himself of the holy city of Mecca, and even carried his boldness so far that he caused himself to be proclaimed Grand-Sultan of Arabia, and ruler of the two seas.

“Yet the eye of Allah beholds the unjust, and punishes the wicked; and I will now give you the very latest intelligence I have received from the holy city. May it fill your heart and soul with joyous gratitude for the justice of Allah! Yes, Allah punishes the insolent. And by the hand of his favorite, of Mohammed Abou-Dahab, in whom the Grand-Sultan Ali confided, was he laid low. This slave Mohammed murdered his master, and seated himself in his place. But him, too, did Allah punish as a wrong-doer and criminal. Allah punished the treason which Mohammed had practised on his master by afflicting him with madness. Day and night he beheld before him Ali’s terrible bloody shade; in horrible dreams he saw the countenance of his murdered master, and at last, amid fearful torments, he slew himself.

“Do you suppose peace had now at last come? Do you suppose that Egypt now submitted to her rightful ruler, the Grand-Sultan of Stamboul? Ye men of Cavalla, hardly was Egypt released from the tyrant Ali, when three other Mameluke beys advanced to seize the vacant throne.

“Mourad, Ibrahim, and Ismail, competed for the prize. Each of them aspired to be the ruler of Egypt–each of them aspired to be called Scheik-el-Belad.

“Mourad and Ibrahim united themselves to rule together in brotherly love. They united their forces against Ismail, and they prevailed against him–he was overthrown and murdered, extinguished like a light that has shone but a brief day.

“And now, hearken to the end, ye men of Cavalla. The Mameluke begs, Mourad and Ibrahim, have entered the golden city of El-Kahera, and have become great and mighty. They have conquered the grand-sultan, have possessed themselves of all the lands, brought all the Mamelukes into subjection, and have not rested until all Egypt has been subjugated.

“And now you know, men of Cavalla, that the sons of the slaves, that Mourad and Ibrahim, rule in the holy city El-Kahera, and in all Egypt. Proudly do these Mameluke princes hold up their heads. From slaves they have become heroes, and from heroes they have become princes.”

CHAPTER VII

DREAMS OF THE FUTURE.

In breathless attention, utterly oblivious of all else, Mohammed had listened to the words of the scha-er; and long after he had concluded, and the audience begun to disperse, he still sat, his eyes widely extended, and gazing fixedly at the cushion on which the sha-er had sat, as though he were still there, relating the deeds and wonders of the Mamelukes. Suddenly the silence that surrounded him aroused him from his preoccupation. He arose and walked slowly out, still hearing the voice that related such wondrous stories of distant lands. Thoughtfully he wandered on toward the rocky pathway. He had forgotten all else: the mother on whose account he had been so anxious, the boys whom he was in the habit of regarding so contemptuously when he met them, and whom he now scarcely sees as they pass by; the cave, too, his paradise, is forgotten. He would no longer desire to return to this dark, dreary solitude.

Upward, upward to the highest point of the rock, to which the name “The Ear of Bucephalus” had been given! He climbs the rocky ascent like a gazelle. Thither no one will follow him; there the eye of the prophet alone will see, and the ear of Allah alone hear him. Up there he will be alone with God and his dreams.

Now he is on the summit, gazing fax out into the sea, into the infinite distance where heaven and sea unite and become one. He stretches out his arms and utters a cry of exultation that resounds through the mountains like the scream of the eagle:

“Thither will I, to the land of promise and of fortune!–to the land where slaves become heroes, and heroes princes! Mother, your dream shall be realized! There I shall find palaces on whose summit I shall stand with uplifted sword, nations at my feet. To Egypt will I go. To the land of grandeur and glory, where for thousands of years the greatest and mightiest have made of themselves princes and rulers. I will become mighty; I will cultivate my mind, that it may help me to rule men. Then I will make of myself a prince before whom all other princes shall fall in the dust!”

He shouts again exultingly, and the walls of the cliffs echo back his cry. He feels so happy, so free from all earthly care. He seems to float in upper air like the eagle, looking down upon the lowliness of earth beneath.

As he looks out into the distance, he sees a little dark spot rise on the horizon. His eagle-eye perceives that it is a ship. As it comes nearer, it dances on the waves, and its white sails expand like the wings of a giant swan. It is a beautiful, majestic object. The young Mohammed rejoices at the spectacle, and says, in low tones, to himself; “Some day I shall possess ships, too. Some day I shall tread the deck of the great admiral’s ship.”

The ship glides over the glittering mirror of the deep, and comes nearer and nearer, and the curious are now assembled on the shore to gaze at it; for rarely do vessels seek the rocky promontory of Bucephalus to land in the bay of Contessa. The peninsula is desolate and barren, and there is nothing here for merchant-ships but the tobacco for which this region is celebrated. A Turkish galleon comes semi-annually for the taxes which the governor has levied, to bring them to Stamboul to the coffers of the grand-sultan.

But the vessel now approaching is no Turkish galleon, but a magnificent ship; and one can see on the deck, under the gold- embroidered tent, a Turk reclining on cushions. Slaves in rich attire are on their knees before him, others are behind him fanning the flies away with fans made of peacock-feathers.

“Who can this great man, this stranger be?” ask the curious, who are standing on the beach, gazing fixedly at the ship that has now entered the little bay, and is steering toward the landing.

Mohammed has also hurried down to the beach. To-day, while his heart and mind are filled with the narrative of the scha-er, to-day every thing seems to him so strange, so wonderful; it seems to him that he is about to receive intelligence from the world his whole being longs for so intensely, the world that is one day to lie at his feet.

The ship has entered the bay, and a boat containing three Turkish gentlemen is coming from it to the shore: They haughtily step ashore, and pass by, without saluting the crowd, to the pathway that leads up to Cavalla. But the grand-looking Turk is still on deck, reclining on his cushions; the slaves are still about, filling and refilling his long chibouque, on whose golden mouth-piece brilliants are seen glittering.

Mohammed’s keen eyes observe all this, and he follows each movement of the aristocratic Turk with breathless attention. Thus, he thinks, will he also do some day; thus will he, too, recline on his silken cushions, surrounded by his slaves he; the prince!

How would those who were standing around the boy have laughed if they could have divined Mohammed’s thoughts, if they had known that he was dreaming of his future magnificence while standing there on the beach in his wide cotton pants, tied at the bottom around his ankles with strings, his felt thrust into a pair of peaked shoes of doubtful color, a faded red shawl bound around his waist, on his body a well-worn brown shirt, the whole crowned with the red tarboosh that covered his dark hair, around which was wound a white and riot particularly clean kufei!

Who could have imagined that this poor Turkish child was dreaming of future glory, and saying to himself, as he regarded the grand gentleman on the deck of the ship: “I will one day be as you are, and even greater than you!”

The governor, accompanied by the strange Turks, and followed by servants carrying palanquins, was now observed coming down the pathway from Cavalla. Hastily he walks to the beach, and, with the Turks, enters the boat and steers for the ship.

The governor has now reached the ship and climbed to the deck, but the grand gentleman does not stir from his cushions, and only greets him with a gracious nod. The people on the beach observe this with astonishment, and ask each other: “Who can this be? Tschorbadji Hassan is the greatest man on our peninsula, and every head bows down before him. And this gentleman dares to salute him with a mere nod. Truly he must be a very great man!”

Mohammed regards the people who are speaking contemptuously, and murmurs to himself: “I shall be a greater man some day. He is no prince, else his ship would show the admiral’s flag, and the governor would fall on his face before him. The scha-er told me that such is the custom in the presence of princes. But the people shall one day prostrate them selves on their faces before me!”

At last the grand gentleman arises slowly from his cushions, and lays his arm on the shoulder of the governor, who walks at his side, his head bowed down, and seemingly delighted at being permitted to bear this burden on his shoulder.

They walk to the stairway; the governor busies himself in helping the stranger to descend, jumps into the boat, and extends his band to assist him to enter. He tranquilly receives these attentions; the slaves follow, and lay gold-embroidered cushions on the bottom of the boat, and the grand gentleman reclines on them in an easy attitude. The governor stands before him, addressing him with an air of profound reverence, and the slaves take up their position behind him, and waft refreshing breezes to him with their fans. As the boat reaches the beach, the governor turns and addresses the people in imperious tones:

“Bow down in the dust before the grand-vizier–before Cousrouf Pacha! Salute his excellency!”

All fall on their knees, and remain there in mute reverence, while the pacha, accompanied by the governor, and followed by his slaves, ascends the pathway to Cavalla.

One person only had not fallen down on his knees, and that person was Mohammed Ali.

He had secreted himself behind a rock, and there he stands, regarding the pacha with eager eyes, and glancing contemptuously at those who, at other times so noisy and arrogant, are now bowed down in the dust, and who have as yet not even ventured to raise their heads.

But now the scene on the shore becomes an animated one. The governor has ordered that other boats be sent out to the ship, and a peculiar and wondrous sight presents itself on board.

White female figures, closely enveloped in long white veils, appear on deck. Tall men, with black faces and fat bodies, stand at their side. The sailors have disappeared from the deck; no one is now visible but the white female figures and the fat black men.

“That is the harem of the grand-vizier,” the people now whisper to each other, “and those men at their side are the eunuchs.”

Two of these eunuchs now come to the shore, and, in threatening tones, order the men to leave the beach at once, and to go up to Cavalla to announce there that no one shall allow himself to be seen in the streets.

The men hurriedly ascend the pathway to the city, without even venturing to look back at the pacha’s harem.

Mohammed Ali alone is nowhere to be seen. He has crouched down behind the rocks, and no one sees the fiery eyes that peer out cautiously from his hiding-place.

The women, looking like white swans, are now rowed to the shore.

The beach is bare–no one sees them. They can venture to open their veils a little, and look about them on this strange shore.

Oh! what glowing eyes, what purple lips, are disclosed to the boy’s sight! For the first time, his heart beats stormily; for the first time, he feels a strange delight in his soul. Yes–beautiful are these women, as are the houris in paradise, and enviable is he to whom they belong.

Two of the eunuchs walk before the women, four walk beside them, and imperiously command them to draw their veils closer together. They approach several of them with profound respect, and extend their hands to assist them in entering the palanquins that stand ready to receive them; the others must go on foot.

Loudly resounds the cry of the eunuchs who walk in advance: “The harem–the harem of his excellency! Away, ye men! The harem!”

At this cry all flee to their houses in the city above, and none are to be seen in the deserted streets but the ladies of the harem that are being borne along in palanquins, and the train of veiled figures behind them.

The procession moves on to the governor’s house, where a strange scene presents itself. Servants are standing about in gold- embroidered garments; all is confusion and motion. His excellency the pacha condescends to take up his abode in the governor’s palace, and the upper saloons are being opened and prepared for the distinguished guest. Adjoining the main building, a side building, with barred windows, extends far out into the garden. Until now it had stood empty, for the governor cares not for the society of women; his heart is cold toward them; he loves nothing but his son. The harem is empty, and is therefore ready to receive the women and slaves of his excellency Cousrouf Pacha. The shutters of the windows have long stood open–the eunuchs now come forward and fasten them securely. The vast building has now become quite still.

Mohammed had watched the procession until the last white swan had disappeared upon the plateau above. He now slipped out of his hiding-place, and walked down to the beach to look at the ship. He had not observed that other boats had put off from the ship to land more passengers.

“I should like to know the destination of this proud and beautiful ship. I should like to sail with it,” murmured the boy.

“Then do so!” cried a loud voice behind him. “If you wish to, my lad, come with us. One leads a splendid life on such a ship. You are tall and strong, and will be gladly accepted.”

His countenance beaming with joy, Mohammed turned and saw at his side a boy of slender figure, in simple Turkish garments, but his hair was closely cut, and not covered with the fez and kuffei. Mohammed glanced fiercely at the boy.

“You are a slave!” said he.

The boy nodded and laughed.

“I am a slave. But I don’t expect to remain one long; I have already heard that the capitano intends to sell me over there, and there one can make his fortune, that I know!”

“Over there?” said Mohammed, eagerly. “What do you call over there?”

“Well, the place we are going to!” exclaimed the boy, laughing. “To Egypt we go, carrying rich goods, and I myself, so to speak, am a piece of goods for the capitano.”

“You go to Egypt?” asked Mohammed; “to the land of wonders, where slaves become heroes, and heroes princes?”

“Ah! you have heard it spoken of, too!” said the boy, laughing. “Yes, the sha-ers everywhere have something to relate about Egypt. In Stamboul I have often heard them tell of the Mamelukes, too!”

“Of the Mamelukes? Of them, too, you have heard?”

“I have not only heard of them, but I intend to make a Mameluke of myself. As you know, these Mamelukes are the slaves of the beys in Egypt. I hope to have the good fortune to be purchased by a bey. I know all that is necessary to become the servant of a Mameluke.”

“And what is necessary?” asked Mohammed, eagerly. “What is it that you know?”

“I can ride as well as the best of the horsemen of the grand-vizier. On a bare horse I can fly over the plains with the speed of a bird. I know how to handle the sword and the spear, and in the fastest gallop I can sever the head of a horse from his body. These are arts that are useful over there, and in them I am a master. You may look at me in astonishment if you will! I am not as tall and stout as you are, but I can tell you I have the strength of a giant, and, in spite of my fourteen years, I am a man. I expect to make my fortune in Egypt.”

“And where have you been until now? From what place do you come?”

“I have been a slave from my youth; I was well brought up and had an education; I know how to wait on fine gentlemen. I served a nobleman as first valet for three years, but couldn’t stand the dull, effeminate life. I longed to be out in the world, and committed all sorts of freaks in order that my master might drive me off. To be sure, I received the bastinado daily, but I stood it like a man. I determined to continue to annoy my gracious master until he should sell me. Look at my feet!”

He took off his shoes and showed Mohammed the scarred soles of his feet.

“These are the scars with which I have purchased my future. Yes; but why do you look at me in such astonishment? By Allah! I should not like to live on this rock here, like you! I must out into the world; must go to Egypt, and make something great of myself.”

“But how will you begin it?” asked Mohammed. “I should like to do so, too.”

“I don’t know yet,” replied the boy, carelessly; “it will depend upon how I succeed in recommending myself to a bey with my horsemanship and sword. One thing I can tell you, if I once become a Mameluke, I shall rise. In case you should hear of me some day, in case my celebrity should reach even this desolate rock, I will tell you my name. My name is Osman, and in mockery, because I served a nobleman, they added bey to it. But I tell you, I will make of the name given me in derision a real title! If you hear of me some day, I shall be called Osman Bey in earnest.”

“I will tell you my name, too,” said Mohammed, proudly, “and if you ever hear of me, you shall know that you once met me here upon the beach. My name is Mohammed Ali, and I am Ibrahim Aga’s son. I am a freeman, you must know, and have never bowed my head beneath the yoke of another! Remember my name, little Osman, and, if Allah wills it, you shall hear of me someday. My name is Mohammed Ali.”

He nodded to the boy contemptuously, and walked off.

Osman laughed, and cried after him:

“You will probably hear of me first, you bold boy, you beggar- prince! I shall probably never hear of the beggar-prince, Mohammed Ali, son of Ibrahim Aga, but of me you shall hear, you silly lad! Don’t forget my name: I am called Osman Bey.”

If they both could now have known the future! If a prophet had permitted the two boys who met here for the first time, in order that they might angrily impress their names on each other’s memory, to look into the future, what would they have seen in its mirror?

Two heroes opposed to each other in ardent love, and in wild enmity. Both equally great, equally ambitious, and equally greedy of glory. They would have seen blood flowing in streams for their sake. They would have seen how Osman Bey, called by the name of Bardissi, dashed onward, flourishing his cimeter at the head of thousands of devoted followers. They would have seen Mohammed Ali in a glittering uniform, mounted on his proud steed, at the head of thousands charging with uplifted sword against Bardissi.

Here on a rock in the bay of San Marmora, the boys met for the first time, and instinct permitted them to feel the enmity that existed between them throughout their entire lives, and which caused thousands to fall, and blood to flow in streams.

They know nothing of this now. Osman whistles a merry air and jumps into the boat that bears him back to the ship. Mohammed Ali ascends the rock to a quiet and solitary spot. There he will rest and meditate on what he has seen and heard to-day.

The ship sails out to sea. Like a giant swan, proudly, majestically, it glides over the blue waves, until at last it rises up in the distance with its masts and spars against the horizon, faintly, like a mere vision of the air.

Above, on the Ear of Bucephalus, stands Mohammed Ali, leaning on his gun, his eyes fixed on the ship. He sighs profoundly as it now disappears without leaving the slightest trace behind, as though engulfed by the waters.

“Gone,” he murmured–“gone! What was the name of the boy, the slave who so defiantly charged me to remember his name? I remember, it was Osman. Yes, Osman Bey, he said. Well, he may depend upon it I shall remember his name, and he may also count on remembering that my name is Mohammed Ali, if we should ever meet again. Oh, I envy him,” said he, in low tones, looking longingly at the horizon. “Oh, I would so gladly have gone with him to the wondrous land the scha-er told of, where slaves become heroes, and heroes princes. He, the slave, goes thither; and I, who am free, am bound to this rock by my poor mother, and must remain!”

The ship sailed on farther and farther on the bright waves. It glided onward over the deep-blue sea two days longer; on the third day the sailors shouted with joy, for the water had become green, and this announced to the experienced seamen that they should soon see land.

When the waves of the Mediterranean Sea change from blue to green, the yellow coast of Africa is near. Another day passed, and the ship entered the harbor of Alexandria. The black and brown people came out to the ship, howling and yelling in their little boats, and with them came the slave-dealers to look for human wares, to bargain for the living as well as for the dead freight.

The captain shows the slave-dealers his line piece of goods, the boy Osman Bey, and offers him as a good article of merchandise. “He is a splendid servant, and knows how to color the chibouque, and how to wait on his master with soft words.”

“He knows more than that!” exclaimed the boy Osman Bey, indignantly. “He knows how to scour across the desert on his steed without saddle or bridle, and loves to flourish the cimeter and lay the heads of men and animals at his feet with a single blow.”

The slave-dealer regards him with favorable glances. That is what he needs. The great Mameluke prince Mourad needs many servants and warriors, and he gave the dealer authority to purchase men for him, young, strong, and healthy men. The ranks of his Mamelukes need recruiting. He will make a fine Mameluke, this slender young man with the keen, glittering eyes.

“What will you have for the boy?”

The captain shrugged his shoulders. “He is really beyond all price; for, as I tell you, he is a splendid servant, and, as he tells you himself, he is a fine horseman, and knows how to wield the cimeter. He is priceless, and I hardly think we shall come to terms.”

They now began to bargain for this human merchandise. They made a great deal of noise, quarrelled, and shook their fists in each other’s faces, while young Osman Bey stood at their side, his arms folded on his breast, calmly looking on and smiling at the uproar created on his account. At last they came to terms. The dealer received his living goods, young Osman Bey, and paid the captain the price agreed upon.

If young Mohammed Ali could see this: if his dark brown eye could send a glance with the speed of an arrow across the waves and through the days and nights ; and if he could hear how the slave, Osman Bey, is traded off for sugar and coffee; if he could see Osman standing in the slave market awaiting a purchaser; if he could see Mourad, the Mameluke bey, at last approach, smile approvingly on young Osman, and finally purchase and place him among his followers; if he could have seen this and the future, he would have felt proud and happy in being a free man, although a poor one. His hands are not fettered, he serves no master, and he cannot be bargained for and sold like a bale of goods ! He is a free human being, conscious of his own worth, and also conscious of the great future that awaits him.

He is thinking of it now as he stands on the rock leaning on his gun, and staring out into the air after the vanished ship. He does not see the future; he only dreams of it as he looks out into the vacant air, oblivious of the present. Nor does he see the mother, who, while he stands there, is hastening painfully and breathlessly, her head bowed down, from her humble but to the proud, main street of the city, to the store of the merchant Lion.

The merchant saw her coming, met her at the door, and held out his hand to her.

“Is it you, Sitta Khadra?” he cried, as she reached the door. “I must tell you I have expected you, esteemed lady, light of my eyes”

She tottered into the hall and seated herself in the chair which the merchant had hastened to bring her.

“Why these fine phrases, sir? Talk to me in short and terse language, as you Franks are accustomed to do, and pay no attention to the flowery words which, with us, the men are in the habit of mocking instead of flattering us poor creatures.”

“I am not mocking you, Sitta Khadra,” said the merchant, gravely. ” I esteem you, for you are a good woman, and therefore I addressed you as I did. I know you well, and I know what you have there hidden under your veil.”

“What have I there, sir?”

“You have brought me back the gold-embroidered goods, and the veil bordered with golden fringe, which your son Mohammed bought for you.”

“Yes, sir; I have brought them back. They do not become me. I did not like to tell the boy so, for it pleases him to think I will array myself in them. I therefore accepted them, hoping you would take them back.”

“I expected you, and see, I have the money ready for you. When I saw you coming, I took it quickly from my purse. Here, good Sitta ghadra, are the six ducats which Mohammed gave me.”

She shook her head gently.

“You are very kind, sir, and I thank you. Yet, I cannot accept them. Mohammed would scold me when he learned it. He told me, himself, that he had given you four ducats and not six. I divined that you had given him the goods at a cheaper price, and that he could not have paid for them at their real value. By this I perceived that the sale was only a pretended one, and have hoped you would take back the goods. But the money I will not receive.”

“To whom shall I give it, then?” asked the astonished merchant. “I dare not offer it to Mohammed; I believe it would make him so angry that he would raise his hand against me. You must not tell him, Sitta Khadra, that you have brought me back the goods.”

“You are right, sir; I should not like to cause him this unhappiness. I shall tell him I have taken the goods to the tailor to have it made into a dress by the next Bairam’s festival. But when the festival comes, I shall no longer be here, and he will not see that I have not put on the costly dress.”

“You will not be here, Sitta Khadra? Then where will you be?” asked the merchant.

She slowly raised her arm, and pointed upward.

“Up there, sir, with my beloved master, Ibrahim Aga; I shall see the glory of Allah, and shall see the prophet, the great prophet to whom my heart-felt prayers so often ascend.”

“What is it you are saying, good Sitta? At the next Bairam’s festival, you will surely still be with us on earth.”

She slowly shook her head.

“I am dying, sir. I have been dying for the last two days look at my lips.”

“They are red and fresh, and show that you are in health, Sitta Khadra.”

“Yea, my lips are red, because I have colored them with henna, that Mohammed may not see how pale they are. For him I have colored my cheeks, too. Good sir, one may deceive out of love, and Allah will forgive me for having made my face a lie out of love for my son. I tell you I am dying; therefore have I come to bring you the goods, and to beg you to take the money and keep it. When he is in want give it to him, and tell him Mother Khadra sends it with her best blessing, and that he must accept it as a present from me, and make a good use of it. I know, sir, that you will give it to him, and that you will watch over him that you may know when he needs it.

“And one thing more I beg of you, whenever you see my beloved son, say to him: –Mohammed Ali, your mother Khadra, loved you very dearly, and sends you a greeting from Heaven, through me. She dwells, above with your father, Ibrahim Aga, and both are looking down upon you, and observing your actions. Therefore be thoughtful, Mohammed, to walk pure and free in the sight of Allah and your parents. Promise me, that you will often say this to my son.”

“I promise, Sitta Khadra,” said the merchant, solemnly. “I promise you that I will watch over your dear son, and that, if it is in my power, I will at all times be ready to lend him a helping hand. I give you my hand to seal this promise, Sitta Khadra.”

She took his hand, and the merchant knew by the heat of her thin, wan fingers that a burning fever was in her blood, and that Death had kissed her lips.

“Now, all is well,” said she, as she rose to her feet with a painful effort. “Now I will return home, that my darling, my Mohammed, may find me when he comes. I have but a few more days to live, and I would not lose a moment that I can spend with him. Farewell! Allah be with you!”

CHAPTER VIII

THE FRIENDS.

In the house of the governor every thing was changed since the day on which the grand-vizier had taken up his abode in the upper saloons. Young Osman, the son of the tschorbadji, experienced this change with great displeasure.

Since the stranger’s harem had been installed in the side-building, whose windows open on the garden, the governor’s son can no longer walk freely in all parts of the beautiful park and enjoy its solitude without fear of interruption. By far the greater portion of the park has been set apart for the use of the harem, and only a small portion adjoining the courtyard is reserved for him.

“And yet fresh air and the sunshine are my only enjoyments,” said he, complainingly, to Mohammed Ali, who had come the next day, according to promise, to repeat to young Osman what the scha-er had spoken, to narrate to him the wondrous stories of the Mamelukes.

He lay reclining on a mat in front of young Osman’s couch, and in excited words, with glowing eyes, he told the heroic stories of the proudest people of Egypt.

Osman’s large eyes were fixed on his face in an earnest gaze, and a slight color tinged his pale cheeks as he listened.

“Beautiful, is it not?” asked Mohammed, as he finished his narrative. “Would not you, too, like to go to the land where, as the scha-er says, slaves become heroes, and heroes princes?’

Osman shook his head gently.

“I do not know, Mohammed. I should be contented, I think, to remain here, reclining on my cushions, the sun above me, and you at my side.”

“But what I have related is beautiful, is it not?”

“I do not know,” replied Osman, for the second time. “I regarded you while you were speaking, and I rejoiced in you. It seems to me, Mohammed, as though you were the better part of myself. I feel as you feel, and think as you think, and rejoice when I hear you utter in fresh and glowing words that which my lips can utter with timidity and hesitation only. If I were healthy, Mohammed, I should be, I think, as you are. Therefore, whenever I look at you, it seems to me I see myself as I might be, but am not.”

“You will be yourself, again,” said Mohammed, tenderly. “When you have become strong again, no one will be able to compete with you in manly exercises, and like all the other boys I shall have to bow my head humbly before you, and shall have to pay you the tribute as they pay it to me.”

In reply, Osman merely raised his pale, transparent hand and showed it to Mohammed.

“Look at this pare, colorless hand. A poor, withered flower, good for nothing except to press the hand of a friend, but a hand that can never wield the sword or battle with the unruly waves as yours can. No, Mohammed! I shall perhaps have health enough to live like the flower or the blade of grass, but not to live like the eagle, like the steed, like Mohammed Ali! But I will not complain. I am contented; every one has his portion of happiness on earth; mine is, to lie on the purple in the sunshine, and to hear my Mohammed tell stories. But I entreat you to come very often,” he continued, with a sigh. “They have now curtailed my little earthly happiness; since this Turk has come with his harem and his glittering suite, I am very miserable. I know that my father feels it, too, and often wishes his distinguished guest had taken his departure.”

“Will he remain long, Osman?”

“That depends on whether his sun shines again in Stamboul,” said young Osman, shrugging his shoulders. “I must tell you, Mohammed, there are peculiar circumstances connected with this gentleman. He has fallen into disfavor, and is waiting here to see whether his sun will shine again or not. He has been sent into exile, and it was really intended that he should go to Egypt, where the Mamelukes of whom you have just been relating such heroic stories, have again risen in wild insurrection against the Turkish governor, and Cousrouf Pacha is lying in wait here because he has good friends in Stamboul who are working for him, and because he hopes to be able to return to the beautiful capital where he can revel in luxury; whereas, if he should go to Egypt, he would be compelled to draw the sword and march out to bloody battle.”

“I hate him–the coward!” exclaimed Mohammed. “I despise men who prefer eating sugar with women in the harem, to mounting their steeds and taking the field against the enemy, sword in hand.”

“That will never be your preference,” said Osman, regarding him tenderly.

“No, never,” protested the boy. “Women are good playthings for hours of leisure, when a man has nothing better to do. But to revel, like Cousrouf, in luxury–to hide himself while he might be attempting deeds of heroism–to be dallying with women instead of mowing off the heads of his enemies, that I cannot comprehend. It is repulsive to me to think of a man’s surrounding himself with women, and taking delight in their caresses and soft words.”

“It suits Cousrouf very well!” said Osman, smiling. “He spends the greater part of his time in the harem. Singing, music, and rejoicing, are the order of the day there. Black female slaves fan him with fans made of peacock-feathers; others, on their knees, fill his chibouque, while he reclines on his cushions, smoking and dreamily gazing at the beautifully-attired female slaves who dance before him.”

“And he,” said Mohammed, “he, the vain man, imagines that they dance and remain in his harem out of love for him!

“I suppose they make him think so. They say a woman’s lips make a lie sweet, and that her face always wears a mask! And yet” he continued, looking dreamily toward the harem, “I must tell you, Mohammed, I sometimes think I should be happy, too, and less tormented with ennui, if one of these houris of paradise sat at my side, chastely veiled, regarding me lovingly and I could look through the white veil at the smile on her lips. Ah, Mohammed, we, who are not made to become heroes, feel an irresistible longing after love, and the sweet delight of being loved. You, of course, cannot understand this.”

“No, I cannot,” cried Mohammed, with a contemptuous smile. “I shall never bow my head beneath the yoke of female slaves, with their beautiful almond-shaped eyes and purple lips. I shall consider all women as playthings, with the exception of my mother,” said he, bowing his head with profound reverence. “Allah forgive me for speaking ill of women, for our mothers are women, Osman! Forgive me my pride and folly. I speak only of the light-footed slaves, with the deceiving smile and the false eyes.”

“And who knows,’ said Osman, smiling, “but that my Mohammed, who speaks of these fetters so derisively, may not some day be vanquished? Do not set your face against it, Mohammed. Remember that even the heart of the great prophet glowed with love, and that it was he who peopled paradise with houris, and promised it, as the highest bliss, that beautiful women should there kneel down before the blessed spirits, gently stroke their feet, and look at them lovingly with their lustrous, gazelle-like eyes. Therefore, do not say, Mohammed, that your heart shall never be accessible to love! Yours is a true, manly heart, and a manly heart must love. You see, Mohammed, I am hardly a man, and shall probably never become one, and therefore I do not believe that love will ever hold me in its golden net; I shall love nothing but my best, my only friend.”

“And will you tell me his name, Osman? ” asked Mohammed, bending down closely to him. Passionately, almost threateningly, he repeated: “Will you tell me the name of this, your beloved, your only friend?”

Osman, smiled, took from a cushion an oval mirror, framed in mother- of-pearl, with a golden handle, and held it before Mohammed. “Look at yourself, and you will know his name.”

Looking, not at the mirror, but earnestly into his friend’s eyes, Mohammed stooped down and kissed Osman’s lips.

“Listen, Osman, to what I say! I am almost ashamed to confess it, and yet it is true, next to my mother I love you best on earth, and I believe I could sacrifice my life for you.”

“And I mine for you,” said Osman, gently.

“Let us swear to be true friends forever,” continued Mohammed.

“Here is my hand! Eternal friendship! If you need me, Osman, call me, and, were I ever so distant, I would come to you. When in want, or when cast down by sorrow and suffering, I will complain to no one but you. What my lips will confess to no one else, they shall confess to Osman. Shall it be so? Friendship for life?”

“Yes, life-long friendship!’ said Osman. “Men need not know it. We will preserve as our secret the bond of friendship we have formed, and I only entreat of Allah that he may some day permit me to prove to you that I am your friend.”

“And this I entreat of Allah, too,” said Mohammed, warmly pressing his friend’s wan hand. “But now let me go; the scha-er relates again to-day, and I will go and hear him, and come to-morrow to repeat to you what I have heard, if you wish it.”

“I shall await you, Mohammed, and count the hours until you come.”

They shook hands once more, and Mohammed hurried down the garden- walks. Osman’s eyes followed him lovingly.

“I love him, and may Allah enable me to prove it some day!”

Mohammed hurries on, heedless of the direction he has taken, and forgetting that the use of the main avenue was forbidden since the harem had taken possession of the park. He walks on, carelessly, heedlessly. He wishes to pass out at the back gate of the garden, as he often did. Hastening on, with flushed cheeks, he hardly perceives a veiled figure, accompanied by two eunuchs, that has just stepped out into the walk from a side-path. The eunuchs cry out, and imperiously command him to depart instantly. Mohammed stands still, shrugs his shoulders, and regards them derisively.

“Are you the masters here in the park of the tschorbadji of Cavalla?” he asks, proudly. “I shall depart when I choose, and because I choose, and not because the strange servants of the stranger have the insolence to order me to do so.”

He said this in haughty, angry tones, and with sparkling eyes, inclined his head slightly to the veiled female figure, and passed slowly by her without even a curious glance.

But she stands still, and her black eyes burn like flames as her gaze follows him, and her purple lips murmur, in low tones: “Beautiful is he, as the young day; beautiful as the rosy dawn of heaven! Oh, that it shone over me! Oh, that this sun were mine!”

He heeded her not; he did not hear the sweet whispering of her lips.

CHAPTER IX

A SOUL IN THE AGONIES OF DEATH.

THE narratives of the scha-er continued to resound in Mohammed’s soul, and occupied him day and night. His existence seemed useless and empty, and every thing that surrounded him colorless and desolate. What cared he now for cliffs and caves, for the surging sea, for the blue sky? How little it seemed to him to be the best rifleman and oarsman of the island, to be renowned down in Praousta as the best fisherman!

What does he care for all this? Who hears of what takes place in Cavalla, or in the miserable village of Praousta? Nobody comes here except the merchants who sometimes land to purchase the celebrated tobacco, and the sultan’s collectors who come twice a year for the taxes.

Who knows of these insignificant places? Who observes Mohammed Ali when he strikes the bird in its flight, or steers his boat over the waves in the wildest storm? All is tame and paltry! With his mind’s eye he sees before him the cities the scha-er had told of. Over there in Egypt, stretched out on the yellow shore of the green sea, lies a great and magnificent city with towers, minarets, and temples, a city such as he has never seen, the, city of Alexandria. Before this city, in the spacious harbor that has existed for thousands of years, lie long rows of ships with masts, and fluttering flags, and golden images at their bows.

Little boats dance about the ship, and all is activity and bustle. In the interior of the land shines El-gahera, the new city, with the palaces of the caliphs and its hundreds of minarets and temples. The streets are alive with men of all nations; there are Turks and Arabians, Egyptians and Europeans. The blacks of Nubia and Abyssinia mingle with the white men of France and Germany, and the languages of all nations are heard.

He lay on the rock, on the Ear of Bucephalus, gazing out into the distance toward the horizon, imagining he could see these wondrous cities. He dreamed of the glories of the world, and his fancy beheld boats and ships, palaces and minarets.

The sea lies beneath like a blue mirror. The waves murmur in low tones as they caress the shore. The stillness is profound, the solitude of the first day of creation surrounds him. Suddenly a cry resounds, a loud, piercing one, such as the eagle utters when his young are in danger. It aroused Mohammed from his meditation.

“Strange! I heard the cry, yet I can nowhere see the eagle that uttered it.”

For the second time it resounds, louder and more piercing than before. Mohammed shudders in his whole being.

The cry is not that of an eagle. It is a human voice. Toussoun has uttered it, and it announces that his mother is in danger. He springs with horror to his feet, and bounds from rock to rock, down the steep-he has just heard the cry for the third time.

“Await me, mother! O my mother, I am coming!”

Like an arrow he speeds through the suburb to his mother’s hut. Pale and terrified, Toussoun meets him at the door. He had risen from his bed of sickness in response to Khadra’s call. With weak, trembling lips he had entreated her to allow him to call her son, and he did call him, breathing out his last remnant of strength in summoning Mohammed to his mother. Pale, weak, and ill, he now returns to his own hut, supported on the arm of a neighbor, and returns to die.

Mohammed has not noticed him. He springs to the door, tears it open, and sees the women who have come to Sitta Khadra’s assistance. Now that he has come they walk out noiselessly, and wait at the door.

How long will it be before she is dead, before they can assume the role of mourning-women, and begin their lamentations? True, Sitta Khadra is poor, but then the community will, out of self-respect, pay the mourning charges. Consoling themselves with this thought, the women crouch down at the door.

Mohammed kneels beside the mat on which his mother lies, takes her hands–now almost cold-in his own, bends over her and looks into the widely-distended eyes that stare vacantly up at him, and sobs in loud, heart-rending tones “Mother, Mother, Do you hear me? Here I am, your son, Mohammed. You cannot die, for I am with you!”

The words of her son reach the mother’s soul, that was already on the point of fluttering to heaven. It returns to its poor frail habitation. Life returns to her eyes, and a faint smile plays about her pale lips. The mother heard her child’s voice, and her soul returned to the already stiffening body.

With a faint smile she raised her head a little to kiss his lips.

“I recognize you, my son, and I awaken once more to bid you farewell.”

“No, mother, it is impossible, you cannot leave me!” said he, in such loud and piercing tones that the mourning-women at the door heard it and whispered to each other: “That was a good cry; we could do no better ourselves.”

“Son of my heart,” whispered Khadra, and the mother employed her last strength to force her cold lips to speak and to recall the thoughts already struggling to take wing–” son of my Ibrahim, do not grieve for me! I have been dying these many days, I have long struggled with Death. He stood at the door ready to take me, but I thrust him back that I might see my son, my darling, once more.”

“O mother, mother! you are breaking my heart,” cried Mohammed, and his head sank heavily upon his mother’s shoulder.

“Be brave, my son, I entreat you with my last breath! Be brave, be a man, and consider my dream with the eye of your soul. Make it reality! Make of the poor, disconsolate boy who stands here the hero of the future, as I saw you in my visions in the nights before you were born! I saw a crown on your head and a sword glittered in your hand. And I see the future now, too; and I will tell you what I see, my son: I see you, your son, and your grandson! They shall all wear crowns, shall sit on one throne, and the nations shall lie in the dust before them! My soul has returned to announce this to you.”

“If your soul has returned,” said he, in tones of earnest entreaty, “then command it to remain with you! Life will be solitary and desolate without you. You are the only woman I love. If you go, take me with you, and tell the prophet, if he be angry, that I could be of no use here on earth without you. Take me to my father and say to him, the family shall be united in heaven as it never was on earth.”

“No, you shall not go with me,” said she, raising herself with a last effort from the mat. “I command you to live! I shall go to your father and bear him the greeting of our only son, and say to him, ‘We shall not die, we shall live on in our son; he will make our name great and glorious before the world!’ But you I command to make true what I shall tell him.”

She sank back. Her head fell heavily on her pillow of dry leaves; her breathing became short and painful, and her eyes again assumed the vacant expression that had struck such terror to Mohammed’s soul.

“Mother, I entreat you, answer me once more! Do you hear me? Do you love me?”

“I hear you,” murmured the stiffening lips. “And do I love you? Your mother’s love struggled with Death for a whole year. He tried to drag me hence, and I struggled with him day after day, and night after night. Love helped me to deceive you, or you would have seen your mother dying day by day. Now, I am going hence, and the agathodaemon will give me new garments, and a new countenance full of youth and beauty, that your father may see me as I looked in the days of our youthful love. O my son, may the woman you are to love be not far distant; may she soon wing her flight to you, the dove of innocence, with the countenance of love and the fragrance of the rose? May she open heaven unto you with her star-like eyes? This is my last blessing, my son. Allah watch over you! Farewell!”

The words were soft and low, like the whispering of a departing spirit. Mohammed had listened eagerly, his ear held close to her lips, and he still listened when the light of his mother’s eyes was extinguished, and the hand of Death had swept over her countenance, imparting to the white brow a yellow, and to the lips a blue tint. Suddenly he shuddered, raised his head and looked at his mother. He then uttered a shriek, a loud, fearful shriek, that caused the mourning-women outside to bound to their feet, for they knew that it was thus that survivors shriek when Death seizes his prey.

They now commence their mournings, and farther off other cries and lamentations are heard. The latter are uttered by the friends of Ibrahim Aga. They have placed themselves near the but to begin, according to a religious custom, the service of the dead, as soon as the soul shall have left the body.

They form a circle near the open door. Their arms crossed over their breasts, they stand there, moving their heads continually from one side to the other. “Allah il Allah!” they cry, and within stand the women shrieking, yelling, and lamenting, over the deceased. They at last arouse Mohammed, who had swooned away beside the body. He springs to his feet, pushes back the women, and bounds into the middle of the circle of men, who whirl around faster and faster; they suppose he has come to join in their ceremony, but he pushes them aside and rushes forth. He rushes so rapidly up the pathway that no one can follow him, and no one attempts to do so.

His grief must exhaust itself, they say to each other.

“When it has done so, and evening comes, he will return.” The evening came, but Mohammed had not returned to perform the sacred duty of watching over the dead through the night, as it became an only son to do. The mourning women had departed to rest after their exertions. They now returned, the sheik having ordered that they should perform the night-watch in the absence of the son, in order that the ghins might not enter and pronounce their curse over the house, condemning the future generations, descending from the dead, to misery.

The mourning-women remained the entire night, sometimes interrupting their prayers, to say to each other that Mohammed, the only son, was really a very unnatural child, and respected his mother very little, or he would not be wandering about among the rocks, while his mother’s body was still unburied. Then they console themselves with the thought that he will come in the morning, when the tomtom resounds, which calls the people to the funeral.

The signal is heard on the following morning, and the men come carrying in their crossed arms the Koran.

The sheik himself condescends to appear at Sitta Khadra’s funeral. She was an honest, virtuous woman, and is to be buried with honor beside the grave of her husband, Ibrahim.

The mourners slowly assemble. The tomtom is still vainly summoning the only son.

The body has been laid on two boards covered with woollen cloths, and is borne out on the shoulders of four men. The mourning-women yell and shriek, the men murmur prayers, and the drum resounds, while the procession is slowly moving toward the place of burial.

Mohammed hears nothing of all this. He has fled to the cave, once his paradise, now his hell. There he lies on his mat, looking up through the opening in the rock at the heavens, and cursing the ghins who have robbed him of his mother. But his agathodaemon will intercede with Allah for his forgiveness for the despair which causes his lips to utter curses of which his heart knows nothing. The good spirits will intercede for the poor boy.

Driven out into the world alone. Poorer than the eagle’s brood in their nest overhead, that have tender parents to care for them. No one cares for me.

The echo mournfully repeats the piercing cry that had resounded throughout the cave, and says sadly: “No one, no one.” He then sinks down on his mat, and lies there motionless and insensible with grief and horror.

Without, the sea murmurs gently, as if to sing a song of consolation. He hears it not. All is now so still that the little snakes and green lizards with their sparkling eyes venture forth again from the hiding places to which they had fled when his despairing voice reverberated through the cave. They creep up to the dark, motionless mass that lies there on the ground. The sun sends its rays through the opening in the rock, and throws a streak of golden light across the prostrate body, and the little animals crawl and rustle about to enjoy the sunshine.

A large rock-serpent has crawled from its lair and coiled itself beside Mohammed; its eyes glitter in the sunlight like precious stones.

“I will die–die ” he suddenly cries out, and springs to his feet so quickly that the serpents and lizards barely escape being trodden on as they escape to their holes behind the rocks. “Here I will remain. How often, in the past, have I longed to be in my cave, my only secret, my only possession.” Once, to gratify this longing, I came here, and then turned back, and said to myself. He who cannot practice self-denial, cannot enjoy! And now I have practiced it, and yet I have not enjoyed. But now I will enjoy, will enjoy death, at least. Yes, I am resolved,” said he, with trembling lips.” I will remain here and enjoy death. What does this struggling from day to day avail this dreaming of future glory? Each succeeding day is in poverty and misery the same. I was a fool to dream of future glory. Now I will die. Let others be happy! Let the slave, Osman Bey, attain what the free Mohammed cannot attain. He is welcome to his reward death is at the end of it all, for him, too!”

He looks, through the opening in the rock, at the heavens above him, and then rises higher to look down at the sea also, as though he wished to take leave of it in a last glance. He then lies down on his mat again. “Yes, let the slave Osman achieve glory, the free Mohammed prefers death.”

And yet, against his will, he must still think of the slave who has gone out into the world over the sea to the wondrous land of Egypt, where the caliphs were once enthroned, where their tombs still stand, and where the Mamelukes now rule in their stead. He still dreams of this wondrous land, with its ancient cities, and thinks that these may be the death dreams that are to lull him to his eternal rest.

He is suddenly awakened from his dreams by a horrible sensation. It is hunger, the hunger that rages within him. It is thirst that parches his lips. The soul wishes to die, but the body calls the man back to life, and appeals to him so loudly, so vehemently, that he cannot but listen to its voice.

He resists with all his might. He will conquer. This miserable hunger, this despicable thirst; he will not heed the pains that rend his body, he will be strong, and a hero, in death at least.

Convulsively he clings to the rock as if to a support against the allurements that strive to draw him out into life. But the voice of the world appeals to him, in louder and louder tones, and fearful are the torments he is undergoing.

The spirit must at last succumb to the demands of Nature. He rises to give to the body what of right belongs to the body, nourishment, drink and food.

He creeps to the entrance, and is so weak that he can hardly pass through the opening, which he had formerly made still narrower, that no one might discover it. He is so weak that he can scarcely stand upright; his swollen lips are bleeding; his brain is burning, and he sinks down upon a rock. A kindly voice now calls him. He hears it, but lacks the strength to answer.

“Mohammed! Mohammed!” is heard again, and now the merchant, Lion, approaches from behind a projecting rock. He had seen the boy, but knowing his proud heart, and fearing to put him to shame by showing himself, and saying that he came to his assistance, he had lingered behind the rock.

He now kneels down beside the boy, bends over him, kisses his lips, and whispers loving words in his ear.

“Poor child, Your mother, who loved you so tenderly, would weep bitterly if she could see you in this condition. Poor boy, you must strengthen yourself. I know you have eaten nothing, and I have brought you food.”

He drew a bottle from his pocket, and poured a little wine on his lips. Mohammed tried to resist, but the body was stronger than the will. He greedily swallows the wine, and, without knowing it, asks for more. The merchant smiles approvingly, and pours a little more on his lips, and then gives him a small piece of white bread that he had brought with him, and rejoices when he sees Mohammed breathing with renewed life.

“What are you doing?” he murmured. “I must die, that I may go to my mother.”

The merchant stooped down lower over the boy, and kissed him. “Your mother, who loves you so dearly, sends you this kiss, through me. She confided to me that she must die, and I promised her that I would bring you a kiss from her whenever I saw you. With this kiss she commands you to be brave and happy throughout life.”

And, as he ceased speaking, he inclined his head and kissed him a second time.

Now, as he receives this kiss from his mother, the tears suddenly burst from his eyes and pour down his cheeks, hot tears, and yet they cool and alleviate the burning pains of his soul.

“You weep,” said the merchant, whose own cheeks were wet with grief. “Weep on, pain must have its relief in tears, and even a man need not be ashamed of them.”

He sat down beside Mohammed, drew him close to his side, supporting the boy’s head on his bosom, and spoke to him of his dear mother.

“Nor are you poor, Mohammed. Your mother returned to me your love- offering, together with other sums she had saved. I have fifty gold- pieces for you. Yes, fifty glittering gold-pieces! You can now dress better than formerly, until provision is made for your future; and, if you should need advice or assistance, come to me. You know that I am your friend. And now, be happy and courageous; remember that poor Sitta Khadra has suffered much, and let her be at rest now. Another friend is awaiting you above on the rock; will you go up to him?”

“It is Osman, is it not?” asked Mohammed, as be dried his eyes. “Am I not right?”

The merchant inclined his head. “He could not come down the steep path, or he would be here now.”

“I will go to him; I know he loves me. He will not laugh when he sees that I have been weeping.”

No, Osman did not laugh. When he saw his friend coming, he advanced to meet him with extended arms, and they embraced each other tenderly, tears standing in the eyes of both.

All was still; nothing could be heard but the murmur of the sea, and the rustling of the wind.

The merchant, who had at first stood in silence beside the two, now walked noiselessly away.

They love each other, and what they have to say, no one else should hear.

Mohammed stands up and dries his eyes; he wishes to be composed. Osman holds out his hand:

“Your mother is dead, but she survives in your friends, and your mother and your friend now extend the hand to you. Mohammed, come with me to my house, for my house is yours, too. I will not have you remain alone; you must come with me.”

Mohammed shook his head gravely. “It cannot be–I will not become a slave!”

“Come, out of love for me. Not as my slave, but as my friend. Oh, I am so lonely, and you are the only one who loves, and can console, poor, sickly Osman.”

“I will come to you!” exclaimed Mohammed, drawing his friend to his bosom. “Even as a slave would I come, for I should be my friend’s slave. I will come to you.”

CHAPTER X

COUSROUF PACHA.

THE days had passed quietly and monotonously for Mohammed since the death of his mother.

To climb among the rocks with his gun in stormy weather, to cross over in his boat to Imbra, after the fishermen’s nets and fish, and to tame the young Arabian steeds of the tschorbadji that had as yet known no bridle, these were now Mohammed’s chief pursuits and pleasures, and in them he engaged with passionate ardor when at leisure, that is, when not with his friend Osman Bey.

That which they had vowed to each other after the death of Mohammed’s mother, they had kept-true and firm friendship, brotherly and confidential intercourse. With one wish only of young Osman, had Mohammed not complied: he had not gone to live with him in the proud, governmental building-had refused to share his friend’s luxury and magnificence, and to allow his poverty to be put to shame by the benefits which he would have been compelled to accept.

The hut, inherited from his parents, he retained as his own dwelling. In it nothing had been changed; the mat on which his mother had died was now his bed. In the pitcher out of which she had drunk, he each morning brought fresh water from the spring, and all the articles she had used, poor and miserable as they were, now constituted the furniture of his hut.

In vain had Osman continually renewed his entreaties: “Come to me. Live with me; not for your own sake, Mohammed. I know that you despise luxury, and that the splendor that surrounds us is offensive to you. Not for your own, but for my sake, Mohammed, come to me and live with us. My father is so anxious to have you do so, for he knows that your presence is the best medicine for me. I feel so well and strong when I look at you, Mohammed; and, when you sometimes yield to my entreaties and spend the night with me in my room, it seems to me I sleep better, for I know that my friend is watching over me. Stay with me, Mohammed!”

These soft entreaties, accompanied by tender looks, touched Mohammed, but they could not shake his resolution.

“I cannot and dare not accept, Osman. It would make me unhappy; I should feel myself under too much restraint; I must, above all, preserve the consciousness of being perfectly free and independent. I must feel that I can leave when I choose, and for this very reason is it so sweet to remain–to be with you, unfettered for your sake only, Osman. If I should come and live with you in the palace of the tschorbadji, do you not think I should be an object of dislike to your slaves and servants; that they would point at me when I passed, and whisper: ‘How proud and insolent he is, and yet he is less than I! We are the slaves of our master, and repay with our work the money he spends on our account. But what is he? A proud beggar supported by charity, who has the impudence to give himself the airs of a gentleman.’ Your slaves would say this of me, and mock me with my beggar pride. But, as it is, I am free, and my clothing is my own. It is certainly not as handsome as yours, the caftan not embroidered, the shawl not of Persian make, and the kuffei around my fez not inworked with gold. But yet it is my own, and it pleases me to be thus plainly dressed, as it becomes the son of Ibrahim Aga. I live as it becomes me; my hut is dark and poor–but it is mine, and in it I am a free man. I do not sleep on soft cushions; a plain mat is my bed, but on this mat my mother reposed, and on it she died. To me it is sacred. I pray to my mother each night, Osman, and I greet her each morning when I drink out of the wooden cup so often touched by her lips. I should have to give up all this, and come here to repose in splendid apartments, sleep on silken mattresses, and allow myself to be waited on by slaves who do not belong to me. No, Osman, do not demand this; let me come to you each day, of my own free-will and love.”

He extended his hand to his friend, who, as usual, lay reclining on his couch, and Osman pressed it warmly in his own.

“You are a proud boy,” said he, in low tones, “and though your refusal gives me pain, I can still understand that in your sense you are right, Mohammed. In short, you do not wish to be grateful to anybody.”

“And yet I am grateful to you, Osman,” said Mohammed, regarding him tenderly; “all my heart is full of gratitude and love for you; but how much do I owe to you! Is it not for your sake that your father, the proud tschorbadji, is so kind and friendly to me? Does he not allow me, the lowly born, to sit with him at his table, and treat me as his equal?”

“Because he well knows that you would otherwise never come to me again,” said Osman, with a sad smile. “He is careful not to hurt or offend you in any way, for, as you know, my father loves me very dearly, and it would give him pain to deprive me of the only friend I possess. My father knows that you are my benefactor, and that I live from your life, Mohammed. Look at me wonderingly, if you will; I am a sick child, and shall remain one, although years have made me a youth. And let me tell you, Mohammed, I shall never become a strong, healthy man. I have very weak lungs, inherited from my mother, and if it were not for you, if I had not been sustained by your healthy and vigorous mind and disposition, I should have died long since. Therefore, do not say that you have cause to be grateful to me. My father and I both have cause to be grateful to you, for my father loves me and rejoices in my life; and I, too, am very glad to live. The sun is so beautiful, it is so delightful to look at the deep-blue sky, the flowers are so fragrant, and finally it is such a pleasure to see you and to rejoice in your vigorous mind. I therefore owe every thing to you, Mohammed, and father and I know this, and are very thankful.”

“Those are sweet words, Osman,” said Mohammed, bestowing an affectionate look on his friend. “You are so noble and generous, that you wish to make it appear that all the benefits I have received from you were bestowed by me. But Allah knows that I am profoundly grateful, and I am aware, too, that I have cause to be. Only consider, that to you and your father I owe all that I know. Have I not been allowed to share the instruction given you? Has not the scha-er, whom your father, as his narratives pleased us so much, kept here at a heavy expense, instructed me, too, and taught us both the history of our own and of all other countries? Have I not had the same opportunities as yourself of learning of all that is going on out in the world? Did I not share your instruction in all other branches? Have not the poems of our land been read to us, and have we not learned to understand the Koran, and receive into our souls the wise teachings of the prophet Mahommed? Have we not also learned the difficult science of algebra, and are we not familiar with the laws of justice? Do I not owe it entirely to the instruction which I have shared with you that I can also read the Koran and the books of the prophets and poets? Ah, Osman, I still remember with shame how I was sorrowfully compelled to confess to our teacher in our first lessons, that I knew and understood nothing; that I could not read, and did not even know the letters and figures.”

“And how rapidly you learned all this!” said Osman. “It surprised everybody, and I assure you the scha-rer is always charmed when he speaks of you, and he listens admiringly to what you say after the lessons are over. Yes, the scha-rer says, if you only would you could become one of the greatest of scholars, so rapid has been your progress; but-“

“But one thing I have not learned”, said Mohammed, interrupting him with a smile”. You were about to begin the old story, were you not, Osman? ‘But you never would learn to write,’ you were about to say.”

“Yes, that is what I intended to say, my friend, and this one thing you must still learn: to use the pen and write down your thoughts on paper.”

“I cannot”, cried Mohammed, impatiently; “my hands are too rough. The oar and the gun have made my fingers so stiff that I cannot use the pen.”

“Then let it be so. I will torment you about it no longer.” said Osman, with a sigh. “You are my head and I am your hand. You think for me, and I shall write for you. So shall it be throughout our entire lives, for together we two must remain, and nothing can separate us. Is it not so, my friend? Say it, and say it often, that nothing can separate us. For you must know that if fate should tear you from me it would kill me, and that you cannot intend: therefore, we shall ever remain together, shall we not?”

“We shall ever remain together,” said Mohammed. “That is Osman, consider well what you are saying, for you are nearly eighteen years old.”

“As you are,” responded Osman, smiling.

“Only with this difference, that your father will give you with your eighteenth year, a beautiful aristocratic lady to wife, and establish a harem for you; while Mohammed Ali will never have either a sweetheart or a harem, but will always remain alone and unwedded.”

“Who knows?” replied Osman, laughing. “Those who assure us they will never love, says the poet, are the one’s that fall in love soonest. One is easily surprised by the enemy who is not feared, and against whose snares the heart is not on its guard . . . This will be your fate, Mohammed. Your heart is not on its guard, and does not fear the enemy, love . . . But my poor heart has no cause to fear and be on its guard; let me repeat it, Mohammed; look at me. Can the poor, pale youth, with his wan countenance, his sunken breast, and his weak breath can he think of marrying? Or do you suppose I would care to become a subject of jest in the harem to the female slaves and servants, who would have to wait on the sick man? True, the tschorbadji, my father, has sometimes spoken of giving me an establishment of my own with my eighteenth year. I remained silent, for fortunately it is at present impossible. My establishment was to have been above in the upper saloons, and fortunately Cousrouf Pacha with his harem is still in possession of that part of our house. May he long remain there! I do not wish it on his account, or because I love him, but solely because my father must now delay the execution of this plan. May Cousrouf Pacha, therefore, long remain!”

“I do not wish it,” said Mohammed, gloomily; “he is a hard, proud man, better in his own estimation than anybody here in Cavalla, better even than the tschorbadji. I never saw a prouder man. And what right has he to be so? Has he not fallen into disgrace with the sultan? Did he not come here because he was banished from Stamboul? And do you know why he was banished? I will tell you: because–so have strangers who have come here reported, because he sought the death of his benefactor and master, the grand admiral, Hussein Pacha, in order that he might put himself in his place. Isn’t this horrible, Osman? The grand-admiral had bought him as a slave, and then, because he loved him; made him free, and a wealthy man; he had him instructed, and persuaded the sultan to appoint him bey and pasha; and in return for all this, Cousrouf Pacha attempted to poison his faithful master and benefactor, and calumniated him to the grand sultan. Isn’t this horrible?”

“It certainly would be if it were true,” said Osman; “yet I do not believe it. Much is told and said of the great and mighty, and they are often calumniated and accused of evil deeds which they have not committed. If it were so, do you not suppose the grand-admiral, Hussein Pacha, the mighty man, and the grand-sultan, would have punished him as he deserved? No, my father says differently, and has received from Stamboul other and more reliable information. Cousrouf Pasha has fallen into disgrace–that is a fixed fact–and the sultan has sent him into exile. Yet he did so against the wish of the Grand-Admiral Hussein. Do you know why? Consrouf has fallen into disgrace? Because he refused to go to Egypt as pacha, declaring that was equivalent to sending him into an open grave, as he should never return home from that land of rebels and Mamelukes. The sultan wished to send him to Egypt because he suspected him of having a secret amorous intrigue with one of the sultanas. The sultan had been told that Cousrouf Pacha was in the habit of being secretly conducted to the sultana’s chamber at night by a female slave. As the sultan stealthily approached and opened the door of the chamber, he heard a rustling and whispering, but was so dark in the room that he could see nothing. He called slaves with torches to his assistance. They searched the room, but found nothing. The sultana stood on the balcony looking out into the starlit night. She met her husband with a smiling countenance, saying the night was so beautiful, she had gone out to gaze at the stars. The sultan, it is said, gnashed his teeth with rage, but kept silence, as it would have been unworthy of his dignity to threaten where he could not also punish. On the following morning he sent Cousrouf Pacha into exile to this place, my father tells me. But it is thought the sultan’s anger will soon expend itself, and that his friend the grand-admiral, Hussein Pacha, will succeed in restoring his favorite to honor. Cousrouf Pacha, my father says, is already heartily tired of his tedious sojourn here, and has written to Hussein Pacha that he is now ready to go to Egypt as pacha.”

“Ready to revel in the glories of the world! Truly this great Cousrouf Pacha is very condescending, “cried Mohammed, in derisive tones. “He acts as though he were conferring a favor in accepting that for which another would give his heart’s blood.”

“Would you, Mohammed? ” asked Osman, smiling.

“I would give my blood, drop by drop, only retaining enough to sustain life. Oh, to live there, to go to Egypt as the grand- sultan’s pacha, to rule in that beautiful land, to make the rebels, the Mamelukes, and the beys, bow down in the dust. To vanquish them all, Osman, this is my dream of bliss, this is but no, I am still the same foolish boy, dreaming of impossibilities. See, there come those of whom we have been speaking,” raising his hand and pointing to the hallway. “There comes the tschorbadji with Cousrouf Pacha. Let me go now, Osman, it is unpleasant to be in the vicinity of this haughty man; my heart always fiercely resents his insolence. Let me go!”

Osman held him back. “See, they are looking at us, Mohammed. If you should go now, it would look as though you desired to avoid my father also, and that you assuredly do not wish. Moreover, the haughty gentleman might think that respect for him made you run away, as the lizard flees before the footstep of man. Stay!”

“You are right,” said Mohammed, “I shall stay.”

He straightened himself up, threw his head back proudly, folded his arms on his breast, and stood beside his friend’s couch, gazing composedly at the two gentlemen who were advancing toward them, followed by a number of slaves.

As they came nearer, the tschorbadji stepped hastily forward to greet his son with loving, tender words. Mohammed inclined his head with profound reverence before the father of his beloved friend. He then raised his head again, and firmly met the glance of the haughty Cousrouf Pacha, without any manifestation of deference whatever. The latter stepped forward, and greeted Osman with friendly words; he then turned, and fixed his dark-gray eyes on the young man who stood beside him, awaiting his deferential salutation.

But Mohammed did not salute him. He still stood erect, his arms folded on his breast, beside his friend’s couch.

The pacha slowly turned to the governor. “Tell me, tschorbadji, who is this person? Your slave, is he not?”

“No,” cried Osman, rising partially from his couch, and anticipating his father’s reply. “No, your excellency, he is not our slave, but my friend, my beloved friend, Mohammed Ali.”

“Your friend! A great honor for such a lad, too great an honor, I should think,” said Cousrouf Pacha, directing a fierce glance at Mohammed, who still stood erect beside him.

“Why should your excellency think so?” asked he in sharp, almost threatening tones. “Why is it too great an honor that the son of the tschorbadji calls me his friend? Has it not occurred that aristocratic gentlemen have elevated to an equality with themselves, and made friends even of, slaves, and purchased boys? I remember hearing the scha-er tell of a Circassian slave whom the grand- admiral, at Stamboul, purchased, and subsequently called his friend. He was not ashamed of him, although the lad called Cousrouf was, after all, only a slave.”

“In the name of Allah, I pray you, be still!” cried the tschorbadji, looking anxiously at Mohammed.

“And why should he be still?” asked Cousrouf, in cold, cutting tones. “He is merely telling a story learned from the scha-er. You know, tschorbadji, it is customary to pay story-tellers, and give them a piaster.–Here, take your pay, you little scha-er.”

The pacha drew from his silken purse, filled with gold-pieces, a ducat, and threw it at the boy’s feet.

Mohammed uttered a cry of rage, and took up the gold-piece as though he intended to throw it in the pacha’s face. But Osman held his hand, and begged him in a low voice to be composed.

Mohammed struggled to compose himself. His face was pale, his lips trembled, and his eyes gleamed with wrath and hatred, as he glanced at the pacha; then his countenance became firm and composed. He beckoned to a slave who stood at a distance, to approach, and threw him the gold-piece. “The slave gives the slave his reward. Take it, thou slave!”

A moment of silence and anxious suspense intervened, and then Mohammed’s and the pacha’s eyes met again in a fierce, piercing glance. The pacha then turned, and addressed the tschorbadji:

“If he were my servant,” said he, “I should have him taken out to the court-yard for his insolence. If he there received, as he richly deserves, the bastinado, I think he would soon become humble and quiet. The viper bites no longer when its fangs are extracted.–I tell you, tschorbadji, if he were my servant, he should now receive the bastinado.”

“And if you were my servant,” exclaimed Mohammed, haughtily, “I should treat you in precisely the same manner, sir. The bastinado is very painful, I am told, and you probably know it by personal experience. But this you should know, too, sir, that here on the peninsula of Contessa, slaves only are chastised, and slaves only receive the bastinado. I, however, have never been a slave, but always a free man; and what I am and shall be, I am, I am proud to say, through myself alone. I have not been bought and bargained for, and I sleep better in my dark little but than others who were once slaves, and who, having risen through the favor of their masters, now repose on silken couches.”

“Tschorbadji Hassan!” cried Cousrouf, pale with anger, and hardly capable of restraining himself from striking the bold youth in the face with his own fist–“Tschorbadji Hassan, you shall punish the insolence of this servant who dares to insult me, Cousrouf Pacha. I demand of you punishment for this insolence.”

“I have broken no law, and there is no law that condemns me to punishment,” said Mohammed, firmly and composedly. “Your excellency does me the honor to dispute with me, that is all. With us punishment is meted out according to the law only, and not at the pleasure of every grand gentleman.”

The tschorbadji stepped up to Cousrouf Pacha, and earnestly conjured him to show mercy to his son’s friend, for his sake.

“Consider that Osman is my only child, and my only happiness. Consider that he loves Mohammed as if he were a brother. The physicians say he would die if separated from Mohammed. Be merciful, and forgive the insolence provoked by your own overbearing words. I entreat you to be merciful, and to come away with me.”

He took Cousrouf’s arm in his own, and drew him away, almost forcibly entreating him, with all the anxiety of a father’s heart, to forgive the uncultured youth, who knew nothing of becoming deportment and polished manners. He was an untamed lion, unfamiliar with the gentle ways of the domestic animals.

“And yet I wish I had this young lion in my power,” said Cousrouf, gnashing his teeth with rage, as he followed the governor. “I should extract his teeth, and prove to the monster that he was not a lion, but only a miserable cat, to be trodden under my feet!”

The tschorbadji drew him away more rapidly, that Mohammed might not hear him. He had looked back and perceived that Mohammed was standing still, gazing at them with a threatening eye, and, in reality with the bearing of a lion prepared for the deadly spring.

When they had disappeared, Osman rose from his cushions, stood up, threw his arms around his friend’s neck, and kissed his quivering lips.

“I thank you, my hero, my king, my lion! You stood there like David before Goliath, and overthrew him in the dust. You made the insolent giant small, you hero. I thank you, my Mohammed!”

CHAPTER XI

THE REVOLT.

The great square which lay in the centre of the village of Praousta resounded with wild outcries and clamorings. All the men of the place had assembled by the sea shore; they were generally honest, peaceful sailors, but today they were raging rebels roused to revolt against those in authority, and refusing obedience to the tschorbadji.

Two pale, trembling men stood in the midst of the revolting crowd. They were evidently Turks, by their closely-fitting uniforms, and the scarlet fez on their heads; the short arms which hung at their sides showed them to be the kavassen, or the collectors of the tschorbadji.

These collectors were always an abomination to the people of Praousta; they greeted them constantly with murmuring when they came to collect the taxes, and often, before now, the appeasing, tranquillizing words of the sheik had alone secured the payment of the sums demanded. Today, however, their long-restrained indignation had broken forth. Today, although the sea was so still and peaceful, no one had gone out to fish, for it had been fully determined that on this day they would refuse the demands of the governor’s collectors. The collectors had gone to the village, suspecting nothing. The assessment had been brought by one of them several days before to the sheik, who had received it with a very troubled countenance.

“A double tax? ” he had said; “that will be most unwelcome to the men of Praousta.”

The messenger of the tschorbadji merely shrugged his shoulders. “They will pay it, nevertheless, as the men in Cavalla and other places have done. The money must be collected.” Then, with the haughty bearing which, the officials of the tschorbadji always assumed, he retired.

The sheik called together a council of the oldest men of the village and the ulemas, and informed them that the tschorbadji was compelled to lay a double tax on them at this time because, although his own expenses had been greater, he was obliged to forward the usual amount to Stamboul. New roads had been built; besides that, the tobacco-crop had failed, and new public buildings had been erected. All these expenses must be met, as well as the full amount for Stamboul, which must on no account be lessened.

The men had declared at once, with angry words, that they would never pay the tax. On the morning of the day when the two collectors came from Cavalla, the men of the village assembled in the square as they had determined to do, and greeted them with loud and angry clamorings.

“We will pay no double tax,” cried Abdallah, the leader of the fishermen. “It is quite enough that we are obliged to pay any tax. What do the grand-sultan and his ministers do for us? Not one of them aids us when our crops fail or when we suffer from other misfortunes. When we have double crops, must we not always pay a double tax? But this year we have not even good crops. Our tobacco- crops have failed; our fishing-nets, with all the fish we had taken, have been lost in the storms. Tell us, then, for what reasons we must pay a double tax?”

“The reasons, my dear fishermen,” said the collectors–“the reasons are, that the tschorbadji commands it, and his commands must be obeyed, because the grand-sultan has made him your governor.”

“If those were reasons,” shrieked the fishermen, “the tschorbadji could drive us from our huts, and take from us all that is ours. Those are no reasons; no, we will not pay the tax!”

“You must, and you will!” cried the second officer.

That was the signal for all the men to draw their knives with lightning-speed from their belts. They brandished them in their fists, pressing from all sides upon the two officers, and swearing to kill them if they did not go at once to Cavalla and announce what had occurred here.

Some of the men rushed off to the dwelling of the sheik, while others hastened to bring the ulemas to the square.

“Are we to pay the double tax, sheik? Speak for us; tell the officers what answer they must take to the tschorbadji.”

The sheik bowed kindly on every side as he made his way through the circle of armed men. All was profound silence as he came before the two officers, and all present listened in breathless silence to his words.

“Lo, ye servants of justice!” exclaimed the sheik in a solemn voice, “I say, go up to the city, and inform the tschorbadji that he has demanded more than is just of the men of Praousta.”

An overwhelming, thundering huzza interrupted the sheik.

“Speak on,” was then the cry. “Let us hear what the good sheik has to say to us!”