Mohammed Ali and His House by Luise von Muhlbach (page 4)

CHAPTER V

THE DELIVERANCE.

“This, dear sir, is the woman of whom I spoke,” said the tschorbadji, throwing open the door of the room, and stepping aside respectfully to allow his distinguished guest, Cousrouf Pacha, to pass in. “Salute this gentleman with reverence, daughter of my sheik,” said he, turning to Masa. “You stand in the presence of a mighty man; he alone can help you.”

“O master, if it is in your power, I pray you to help me,” cried the maiden, falling upon her knees before the pacha. “Be merciful! Deliver my father from his prison; deliver us all from fear and danger!”

“What does all this mean?” asked Cousrouf, haughtily, turning to the tschorbadji, who had respectfully stepped aside. “You bade me come to decide an important question, and I find here only a young woman who is weeping. What does this mean?”

“This young maiden is the daughter of Sheik Alepp, who is, as you know, imprisoned in the court-yard. She loves her father dearly, and has continually worked and pleaded for him since his imprisonment. She now comes to say that the men of Praousta are really not able to pay the double tax. You know that, although I would now gladly abandon the collection of the tax, I have sworn to Mohammed Ali that he alone should settle the matter. This tender-hearted maiden has now thought of a means of solving this difficulty. She brings these jewels, inherited from her mother, and asks me to give her their value, a sum sufficient to pay the second tax. I, however, am a poor man, and have not the hundred sequins to give her for her jewelry, in order that she may take them to the people of Praousta, for from them only will Mohammed accept payment of the tax. Therefore, pardon my importunity. You are rich and mighty; when your purse is empty you can easily refill it. You are noble and generous, and will perhaps be disposed to take the jewelry, and let the loving daughter have the money wherewith to obtain the deliverance of her father.”

“Where are the jewels?” asked the pacha, gazing with impassioned eyes upon the veiled figure of the maiden of whose countenance the eyes alone were visible. But they were so beautiful, and rested upon him with such an expression of tender entreaty, that he was moved to the depths of his soul. “Where are the jewels?” repeated he, slightly bending down over her.

She raised her hand and gave him the casket. “Here they are, noble master. May Allah soften your heart, that I may not be deprived of my beloved father!” He listened attentively to this voice. It seemed to him he had never heard sweeter music than the tender, tremulous tones of this maiden pleading for her father. His gaze still fixed upon her, he opened the casket and glanced indifferently at its precious contents. For a moment a strange smile played about his lips, and he then turned with a mocking, contemptuous expression of countenance, and addressed the tschorbadji:

“Tschorbadji, can you really so poorly distinguish between genuine gold and precious stones and a worthless imitation? These are playthings for children. These are not, pearls, and this is not gold. A well-planned swindle, truly. No Jew would give you two sequins for these things, not to speak of a hundred.”

“Swindle!” she cried, springing to her feet, and her voice as now clear and threatening. “You accuse me of planning a swindle! You are wrong, sir; and if there be any one here who cannot distinguish true gold and pearls from a base imitation, you are he! The gold and pearls are genuine, and were inherited by me from my mother, who was the daughter of a rich jeweler in Stamboul. She bequeathed them to me, and the casket has not been opened before since her death. And you accuse me of attempting to defraud you! You act ungenerously.”

“Dear sir, forgive her, forgive her bold words!” said the tschorbadji, addressing in earnest tones the pacha, whose eager gaze was still fixed on the maiden. It seemed as though her anger had power to excite his sympathy and admiration.

“It is of no moment,” said he, haughtily: “I pray you, tschorbadji, withdraw into the adjoining room. I wish to converse with her alone, and if in my power I will assist her, notwithstanding her imitation jewelry.”

“O master, you are assuredly wrong,” urged the maiden. “The pearls are real, and the gold of the purest. I swear it by Allah! If you do not intend to purchase my jewelry, and enable me to save my father, tell me so at once, but you must not mock me.”

“I am not mocking you I–Kindly withdraw into the next room, tschorbadji, but leave the door open. You shall see all that passes between us, but I beg that you will close your ear. I wish to deal with the maiden alone, and it concerns no one to hear what we have to say.”

“I shall withdraw to the farther end of the adjoining room, where no word of your conversation can reach me,” said the tachorbadji, respectfully. The pacha smiled condescendingly on the tschorbadji, who walked into the next room, and seated himself at its farthest end.

“Now, daughter of Sheik Alepp, now we will consider this matter,” said the pacha. “I am willing to assist you, but you must do your part.”

“Master, what shall I do? I am anxious to do all I can.”

“Do you love your father?”

“Yes, master! I love him with all my soul; he is the master given me by Allah, and he is at the same time my friend. He is every thing to me, mother, brother, sister. We two are alone together, and love nothing in the world but each other!”

“Then I am sorry for you, poor child!” said the pacha. “Your father is lost if the tax is not paid. You say yourself that the men of Praousta cannot pay the double tax, and should they fail to do so the heads of the four prisoners must fall.”

“Be merciful! O master, be merciful,” cried Masa. “You are rich and mighty. You can save him. Oh, save him!”

“You are in error,” said the pacha, “in this case I am powerless; even the tschorbadji can do nothing. He pledged this word to Mohammed Ali; he took the triple oath that he would allow him to act as he should think best in this matter. Mohammed Ali has sworn that the heads of the prisoners shall fall unless the people of Praousta pay the tax, and that he will behead them himself if no other executioner can be found.”

“Horrible! and thus was his oath,” cried Masa, shuddering.

“I pray you, master, tell me, were these his words; did he swear he would himself execute my father?”

“He did. And, believe me, the youth will keep his word. He is blood- thirsty and cruel, and it will gladden his heart to cool his wrath in your father’s blood.”

“No! It is impossible!” cried Masa, in terror. “He cannot be so cruel, and he is not!”

“Then you know him? ” said the pacha, his eyes gleaming with hatred.

“I saw him this morning, and implored him to be merciful. I went down on my knees before him, and besought him not to take my father’s life.”

“And yet he will do it! I tell you this Mohammed is a fierce youth. Mercy is a word of which he knows nothing. You yourself have seen that he is relentless.”

“Yes,” murmured she ; “he is relentless.”

“There is, therefore, nothing to be hoped for from him,” said the pacha. “The tax must be paid, or the prisoners’ heads fall.”

She sighed profoundly, and covered her face with her hands. She knows it is so; he told her so himself, in an agony of pain and sorrow. The men must pay the tax, or all is lost; her father, or he whom she loves, must die. She knows and feels this; and, therefore, has she come to implore mercy of the stranger, whose gaze fills her with anxiety and terror. She thinks of her father, and of the youth whom she loves, and her tongue is eloquent, for she is pleading for both.

“I can help you,” said the pacha, tranquilly and haughtily, “and I will do so.”

“You will?” cried she, joyously; and her eyes sparkled like the stars of heaven, and filled the pacha, whose gaze was still fixed on her; with delight. “You will help me, gracious master, sent by Allah to my assistance, you will deliver my father from prison?”

“I will,” replied the pacha. “That is, it depends on whether you will grant a request of mine, and do what I wish.”

“And what is it you desire, master?” asked the innocent, anxious maiden in tremulous tones.

He gazed on her passionately, a smile lighting up his countenance. “Lift your veil, and let me look upon your countenance.”

She shuddered, and drew her veil so closely about her face, that it concealed her eyes also.

“O master!” said she, in low tones of entreaty. “As you know, the custom of our land forbids a girl to appear unveiled before a man.”

“Unless he be the man who takes her into his harem,” replied he, smiling.

“Yes, master, only before him whom she follows into the harem, and then only when she has already followed him, may she unveil her face before him. Therefore, be merciful, O master! Honor the custom of our land, and do not demand of me what I could never confess to my father!”

“Silly girl,” answered he. “I do demand it, and, if it is denied me, your father’s head falls. You admit he is the only man you love, and your only shield. When he is dead, you will be a beggar, and will not even be able to purchase a veil, for the poor are everywhere unveiled, and are, on that account, no worse than you who mask your faces with veils. Therefore, daughter of the sheik, lift your veil!”

“Mercy! mercy!” she exclaimed, raising her hands entreatingly. “I cannot do what you desire. I dare not. I have sworn an oath!”

“An oath?” said he, gazing at her piercingly. “To whom did you swear this oath?”

She trembled, and did not reply. She felt that she must not confess the truth, for that would be to invoke destruction upon the head of Mohammed.

“I swore it to myself,” she whispered in low tones. “I swore to remain pure and honest, as beseemed my mother’s daughter, and never to raise my veil in the presence of a strange man.”

“Then keep your oath!” said he, stepping close to her. “You shall not raise your veil, but I will; I will do it. I must see your face before I fulfil my promise, before I deliver your father from prison.”

He raised his arm. She sought to defend herself, and prayed for mercy. In vain! With a quick movement he lifted her veil, and fastened his gaze on her countenance. At that moment a cry resounded through the apartment, a cry of rage, and at the door of the adjoining room appeared Mohammed Ali, pale and infuriated. He was about to rush into the room, but with a bound the tachorbadji sprang to his side, grasped him with all the strength which his anxiety gave him, drew him back, closed the door, locked it, and drew the key out of the lock.

“You ought not to enter, and, by Allah, you shall not!”

“I must enter!” cried Mohammed, gnashing his teeth, and looking like an enraged lion, as he endeavored to wrest the key from the tschorbadji. But the latter grasped the key firmly, and anxiously called his son.

“What has happened?” asked Osman in anxious tones, as he entered the room. Mohammed stood still, controlling his wrath with a gigantic effort.

“You ask, Osman, what has happened. Within is Cousrouf Pacha with the sheik Alepp’s daughter, and he treats with her for her honor and innocence, and she allows him to do so!” cried he, loudly and fiercely.

“That is not true,” said the governor. “You accuse him wrongly. There is no reason why all the world should not see and hear what is going on within. It is your fault alone that I found it necessary to lock the door. What was your object in coming?”

“I came because the decisive hour has arrived, and I saw, in the adjoining room, Cousrouf Pacha raising the girl’s veil.”

“You came and rushed past me like a madman. How do the girl’s actions concern you. She came to seek deliverance for her father.”

“How her actions concern me, you ask, tschorbadji?” he cried, clinching his fists. “How Masa’s actions concern me, you wish to know?”

“Be still, Mohammed!” said Osman, whose keen vision had read the youth’s soul, in low, entreating tones. “I pray you do not betray your secret.”

Mohammed shook convulsively, and covered his face with his hands. “It is true,” he murmured. “I must and will be silent. She is lost to me. I will think of nothing but revenge, let all else be forgotten. –Tschorbadji, you swore that I alone should decide the fate of the prisoners, and you will keep your oath!”

“I will keep my oath, as beseems an honest man, yet I hope, Mohammed, that you will not be relentless; if you had heard, as I have, the poor young girl’s lamentations, it would have softened your heart, and it would not have become necessary to resort to the pacha.”

“As if he could assist her,” he murmured to himself. “As if all assistance were not now out of the question.”

“Be composed, Mohammed,” said Osman, entreatingly, as he threw his arms around his friend’s neck. “Do not complain, do not accuse. Be firm, and prove that you have a strong and noble heart.”

He cried out in piercing tones, as the lion cries when it sees the hyena rending his young, as the eagle cries when the storm-wind sweeps away its nest with its young. Then in wild emotion he threw his arms around his friend’s neck, and groaned heavily. Within, in the saloon, nothing could be heard of the loud talking in, the adjoining room. The pacha still held the veil high uplifted and gazed at Masa.

“What is your name?” asked he, in low, soft tones. She cast down her eyes before his passionate glances, and a deep blush suffused itself over her features, making her still, more beautiful.

“My name is Masa,” replied the girl, in a low voice. “But I pray you, sir, let my veil fall over my face again. I am afraid!”

“Let me gaze on you one short moment longer,” whispered he, ardently. “You are beautiful, Masa, as are the stars of heaven, as are the blush-roses in my garden. No, you are still more beautiful, for they soon fade, but you are in the rosy dawn of your loveliness, and your youth is still radiant in the morning-dew of innocence. Oh, you are surpassingly beautiful, and it seems to me the prophet has graciously sent me one of his houris from Paradise.”

“I entreat you, sir, let go my veil,” said she, in dismay, while two great tears trickled through her long black eyelashes and rolled down her cheeks.

“These are pearls, more beautiful pearls, Masa, than are contained in yonder casket,” whispered the pacha. “They will be genuine pearls if you let me kiss them from your cheeks.”

She stepped back proudly, tore the veil from his hand, and drew it down over her face again. “I have given no one the right to insult me, and you insult me!”

“How musical this sounds! How sweet three words of indignant innocence!”

At this moment Mohammed’s voice, in loud, angry tones, was heard in the adjoining room. The pacha smiled, and motioned with his head in that direction.

“You have seen Mohammed Ali, and you now hear him; he is a desperado, and will kill your father!”

“Yes,” she murmured to herself, “he will now be pitiless, he will now kill him.”

“But I,” said the pacha, in gentle tones, “I have pity, and I will save your father.”

“You will save him?” she said, tremblingly.

“I will,” said he. “But hear me, Masa, charming crimson rose, hear me.”

“I am listening,” said she, sobbing.

He did not heed this, but stepped nearer, and bent down over her. “Masa, your jewelry I will not take, I want no such recompense; you shall even have money, all you may desire, if I can purchase you with it.

“Me, sir?” she cried, in horror. “You wish to purchase me?”

“Why are you so terrified? I have in my harem many women who are as beautiful and young as you are, and of much nobler birth, and they esteem themselves happy in belonging to me. But I tell you, Masa, I will hold you higher than them all. You shall rule over them all, and they shall all bow down before you, for Cousrouf Pacha will set them the example. By Allah! I swear it to you with the triple oath: not my slave, but my favorite, shall you be. Cousrouf Pacha will honor you as the first, as the queen of his harem.”

“It is impossible, sir,” she cried, in terror. “My father’s daughter cannot sell herself. She is a free woman, and must remain so.”

“Then remain so, and your father dies,” said he, composedly. “Plume yourself with your freedom, but say, too, in your proud arrogance, that you are the murderess of your father. For, I say to you, Mohammed swore the oath, and he will keep it. Your father will die, and you will be his murderess.”

“Allah be merciful! I cannot allow my father to die. No!” she groaned aloud.

“He dies if you do not accept what I offer. I repeat it, wealth and honors shall be yours. The daughter of the poor sheik of the wretched village shall become the favorite of the pacha. I shall not remain here long. The message will soon come that calls me to Stamboul; and you, Masa, shall go with me. At the court of the grand-vizier you shall be the first; I will honor you above all the rest, and lay at your feet all that I possess, for you are beautiful, and my heart is filled with love for you. I will make you happy at my side. And now decide. Without in the iron cage stands your father awaiting his deliverance, and here stands his daughter, and beside her Cousrouf Pacha, who offers her money, all she may desire, and lays every thing that he possesses at her feet. If you accept this offer, Masa, your father walks out of his prison a free man in spite of the blood-thirsty youth. Take the money and do not think I am purchasing you; it shall only be an earnest of your future. If you suppose you are to be, as you say, a slave, you are mistaken. You will only become the slave of your love for me.”

“No, sir! never can I love you,” she cried, vehemently.

“You cannot? It is thus the heart of the wild-dove speaks! Masa, you will, because you will be touched by my love. When you see me doing every thing to make you happy it will touch your heart, and you will love me.”

At this moment loud cries and lamentations were heard from without.

“Those are the men of Praousta, who have come up and are lamenting. Do you not hear the call from the mosque? The second hour of prayer is at hand, the time has came. Decide, Masa!”

She sank down on her knees, groaning; and prayed to Allah for mercy.

“O Mass,” said the pacha, raising her from her knees, “Cousrouf prays to you, be merciful to your father; yield, be mine and save him.”

Loud cries of grief again resounded without. Masa, shook with terror. “I cannot allow my father to die, I cannot! I yield, I am ready; give me the money, that I may bring it to these people.”

“I will give it to you, and you shall rescue your father. And now you are mine; not my slave, but my queen. Go up into my harem while I take the money out to these people.”

“No, not so,” she cried, entreatingly. “Leave me my freedom for this one day only; let me remain this one day with my father, and do not let him have a suspicion of the price I have paid for his liberty.”

“Then let it be so,” said he, regarding her fixedly. “You swear, by the memory of your mother, that you will voluntarily return to my harem early to-morrow morning.”

“I swear, by the memory of my mother, that I will return here early to-morrow morning.”

“You will come to the back-gate of my garden, where my servants will await you to conduct you to me. And now I am going after the money. Go into the adjoining room, to the tachorbadji.”

He opened the door, and beckoned to the governor. “Await me here a moment; I am going after the money with which to release the prisoners.”

He turned to her once more: “You understand, until early to-morrow morning. You have sworn by all you hold sacred–by Allah and by your mother.”

“Yes, I have so sworn,” said she, in a low voice.

“You will keep your word, and henceforth you will belong to me; for you are now mine: remember this. You are mine wherever you go, my property, my slave. This evening, when the night sinks down, and when your father has retired to rest, then you will come to my garden, where I shall await you with my eunuchs.”

“I shall come, master. Am I not your slave, and have you not paid for me?”

He nodded to her, and then turned and left the room.

Masa drew her veil closer about her face, that none might see that it was wet with her tears.

CHAPTER VI

THE FLIGHT.

The court-yard without now presents a busy appearance. The fishermen of Praousta, becoming impatient and anxious, had hurried in a body up the stairway in the rock. When the signal for the morning prayer was sounded from the minarets they knew that nothing was to be hoped for from the efforts of the sheik’s daughter, and they agreed among themselves that they would go up in a body and petition for mercy.

They hastily agreed upon what they should say to the governor, and determined, of course, in their generosity of heart, that they would yield, and promise the governor to pay the double tax if he would only patiently wait a little while. This was their resolve. The sheik and the ulemas must be rescued, cost what it might. With this firm resolve they hastened up the stairway, entered the outer court- yard of the palace, and loudly demanded to be conducted to the governor.

But their clamors were in vain. At the gate of the palace stood the eight soldiers of the body-guard, with drawn swords, prepared to defend the entrance.

Enraged, the fishermen pressed forward with uplifted knives, threatening destruction to all who should attempt to bar their passage.

“Where is the governor? We must speak with him; we must have mercy.”

“No, no mercy,” cried a loud, sonorous voice; and, as they turned in the direction from which the voice came, they saw a fearful object standing in the middle of the court-yard–the block covered with black cloth. Near by, proudly erect, his lips firmly compressed, as if to repress words of imprecation or wrath that struggled for utterance, stood Mohammed Ali, like an angry spirit, ready to judge and to punish. Thus he stood there, and, behind, a slave holding in his hands the glittering axe. “Behold this, ye men of Praousta, and bow down in the dust; pay what the tschorbadji has demanded of you, or the heads of my prisoners shall fall as I have sworn.”

Horror, rage, and anger, were combined in the single cry that resounded from the breasts of all.

“Mercy, mercy! you cruel boy! Do you intend to prevent the men of Praousta from returning tranquilly to their homes? do you wish to make slaves of them?”

“I have authority to act as I am acting, and I will grant no mercy to the men of Praousta. Men must obey the laws, and humbly submit to them; and this you have not done, ye rebels! Why have you followed the sheik and the ulemas? You see they must bow down in the dust, after all; and, unless you pay the tax demanded by the tschorbadji, they shall die.”

“Listen, ye men of Praousta, listen!” cried a loud voice from one of the windows of the palace.

There stood Cousrouf Pacha, beckoning to the fishermen with his uplifted hand.

“Come into the palace; I wish to speak with you.–Make free the passage, ye soldiers! In the name of the tschorbadji, command you to allow these men to enter!”

With a loud shout the men rushed toward the door, and the body-guard stepped aside, and left the passage free.

Mohammed’s glittering eyes followed them, and he suddenly turned pale, for Masa’s lovely form now appeared on the threshold of the palace. A cry resounded from his lips. He stood helpless and motionless with anger and humiliation. It was now clear to him. She, who had sworn to love, who had sworn by her father’s spirit that no man but he should ever raise her veil, had proved unfaithful. She had broken her sacred oath! She, whom he now loved with his whole heart and soul, had blasted his hopes. The thought almost stopped the beating of his heart. “Masa shall repent! Mohammed will wreak vengeance upon humanity for her broken faith.”

He trembled, and pressed his lips firmly together, when her white figure appeared in the doorway. But Masa saw him not, nor thought of him; her whole attention was occupied with her father. With a joyous cry, and widely-extended arms, she flew to the enclosure. “O father, O my father,” cried she, in loud, exultant tones, “you are free!”

“Free?” exclaimed the sheik. “It is impossible! It cannot be!”

Mohammed sprang forward, and thrust Masa aside with such force that she sank upon the ground. A cry of anguish escaped her lips. She veiled herself, and gazed at him with anxious, imploring glance. He could not endure it; he turned his eyes away from her; he would not see her; he would be as strong in his hatred as he was in his love!

“There is no mercy for the traitoress!” murmured he. “I will punish thee for thy unfaithfulness. I will revenge myself upon thee!”

The men of Praousta now issue from the house, and shout joyfully before the cage in which the aged men are imprisoned.

“You are saved–you are free. A noble man was found who sent us assistance. Long live Cousrouf Pacha, your deliverer!”

The pacha threw open the window. He stood there, his form proudly erect. Upon his turban glittered the golden half-moon; above it waved the eagle’s wing; the sun fell upon his sword and richly- chased poniard, playing gayly with the precious stones with which his garments were adorned. His eyes sparkled, and a wondrous smile hovered about his lips. And again they shouted: “Long live Cousrouf Pacha, our deliverer in time of need, our savior!”

He bowed his haughty head, and his eyes rested passionately upon the young maiden, kneeling upon the ground in her agony. From her his glance passed over to Mohammed Ali. He saw the pain and anguish imprinted upon the livid countenance of the youth, and smiled triumphantly.

He withdrew from the window, and hastened down to the court-yard, followed by the tschorbadji. He approached Masa, and, bending over her, said, softly: “Rise, daughter of thy father. Your sorrow and trouble have passed away. Be gay and happy once more. That which wicked men sought to do unto you has been frustrated. Your father is free.–Tschorbadji,” said he, “command your servant Mohammed– command him to unlock the gate of this cage, and to release the prisoners he has guarded so closely.”

“No!” shouted Mohammed, in a voice of thunder. With my consent alone can it be opened!–Guard the gates, ye officers; I go in quest of the key; and not one shall be released until, kneeling at my feet, with their heads in the dust, the rebels pay to me the double tax. What I have sworn–what I have sworn by my honor, that must be done.”

“We will not consent! We will never yield!” cried the men, rushing about in confusion.

“Then the prisoners’ heads shall fall!” cried he, exultingly waving his sword in the air. “The hour until which I granted a respite has come; the gold has not been paid; the law cannot be broken with impunity. You pay, or the hour of vengeance is at hand!”

“We will not kneel; we will not humiliate ourselves before you, you boy!”

With his sword still threateningly raised, Mohammed gazed around him.

The tschorbadji and his son now approached the men, and pleaded with them urgently. They explained to them that Mohammed was in the right; that he could not act differently. As he had sworn by his honor to force them to pay the double tax, he must therefore keep to his word.

“Do as he tells you,” said the tschorbadji, in an entreating tone; “pay the tax he demands. Do it, ye men! I will reward you well, if you do as I say. He who goes to Mohammed to pay the money, he can ask at my hands a favor.”

The men’s anger became subdued by the soft, kind words of their master. With bowed heads and gloomy aspect, they approached Mohammed Ali, who still stood with threatening sword before the cage.

“We kneel before you in the dust; we have returned to our duty,” said one of the men. “Here are the two sequins that I have to pay.”

“Here are mine,” “And mine,” cried they all, with one accord. They knelt and offered Mohammed the gold.

He did not take it; but, gazing steadfastly and bitterly at the pacha, he thrust them aside with a movement of impatience. “Lay your gold upon the block. What, through your obstinacy, has occurred, cannot be obliterated by your gold. Lay your gold upon the block, for to it you offer your gold.”

Laughing wildly, he turned and bowed before the veiled maiden. “But you pay for it with your honor, with your shame.”

She fell forward, and a shriek of agony burst from her lips. But she still gazed with tender eyes upon the youth who looked down upon her so fiercely.

“Traitoress! You have forgotten your oath!”

“No, Mohammed,” whispered she. “Hear me!”

“Away from me! do you still wish to deceive me?” Again he thrust her from him. Masa would have fallen, had not Osman hurried forward and sustained her.

“Forgive him,” whispered he, softly. “He is wild with anger and pain.”

“O Osman, is all known to you?” asked she, in trembling tones.

Osman bowed his head. Tears stood in his eyes. “Be quiet–we are watched. In the evening I will send you word.”

“Open now the gates, and let the prisoners out,” said the tschorbadji to Mohammed. “The law has been vindicated.”

“It shall be as you command,” said Mohammed, with the calmness sometimes born of despair. He drew forth the key, and placed it in the lock. Masa sprang forward. The gate opened, and now she stood beside her father. She threw her arms about him, and kissed his lips. Then she bowed her head upon his breast, and wept bitterly. The old man held her close to his heart, and then, lifting her up, bore her, trembling with emotion, from out the cage, in which he had endured such torture for four-and-twenty hours.

The ulemas followed him. Joyfully the men greeted the released prisoners, and prayed that they might escort them home in triumph.

“I see no cause for triumph,” said the sheik, calmly. “You have done what I cannot approve. It were better, I think, to have laid my gray head upon the block, rather than you should place upon it your hard- earned gold, becoming hereby the slaves of him who gave it to you, and has thus lowered you by his gift.”

“No, sheik,” said Cousrouf Pacha, advancing proudly. “He who gave this gold gave it not with such intent. He gave it not to humiliate these men. I gave it for your sake, and for your daughter’s sake,” continued he, in loud tones, and for an instant his eyes gleamed passionately on Masa.

He well knew his words would enter Mohammed’s heart like a knife. Turning slowly, be glanced at him, and smiled at seeing him turn pale.

“I am now about to leave you,” said the pacha. “The grand-sultan calls me from here. Fear not, therefore, O sheik, that my countenance will longer humiliate you. I give you freedom. Return to your friends; you are free!”

“Long live Cousrouf Pacha!” was the exultant cry of the men of Praousta.

No one heard, amid the many voices, the one crying “Cursed be Cousrouf Pacha! Cursed be my enemy unto death! I swear revenge upon him!”

“Cease, Mohammed; be guarded, be silent! Dissemble your anger, your pain, O friend of my heart! Believe me, all will soon be changed: the sky that now seems so dark, will soon be clear with the light of the sun and of love!”

“No, never, Osman, never,” murmured Mohammed, gazing bitterly at Masa, who, leaning upon her father’s arm, and followed by the ulemas and the jubilant fishermen, was now leaving the court-yard. “Nevermore, Osman, nevermore, will the sun shine for me! Night and impenetrable darkness envelop my fate! But I swear to revenge myself upon those who have done me this wrong!”

“Silence, silence, Mohammed!” said Osman, entreatingly, to his friend. “See, my father approaches, and with him Cousrouf Pacha. How triumphant he seems! He knows he has pained you. Will you permit him to see and rejoice in your pain?”

“No, no, you are right! He shall not rejoice in my pain! Bitter heartache shall I prepare for him someday!” Laughing bitterly to himself, he advanced toward the two approaching him.

“Mohammed Ali,” said the governor, solemnly, “I thank you for your good services. You have accomplished that which, by your honor, you swore to fulfil. And I affirm that I also have kept my word. I allowed you to do as you thought best, and did not restrain you when I thought your acts cruel; but I must nevertheless admit that you have acted with wisdom and with courage. Gladly will I reward you for that which you obtained through your daring. It is fit that such a man should have an office, and exercise the duties thereof from now on. Mohammed Ali, I have good news to impart to you! The scenes of yesterday have taught me that, to preserve peace and quiet, it is necessary to have soldiers at hand. I have already dispatched a courier to the neighboring town, and a garrison shall hereafter stay here or at Cavalla. You, Mohammed Ali, I appoint boulouk bashi, or captain of this company that is to enter Cavalla to-morrow.”

A deep color overspread, like the morning sunlight, Mohammed’s countenance:–“Master, you well know how to reward generously him who has done naught but his duty.”

“And now, my Mohammed,” whispered Osman, softly, “or rather boulouk bashi, let me be the first to congratulate you. How proud and happy I shall be when I see Mohammed Ali, in his glittering uniform, marching at the head of his company. Proud and happy shall I account myself when so handsome, so brave a soldier, considers me worthy of his protection!”

“You make sport of me,” murmured Mohammed, a soft smile illuminating his countenance. In the spirit he saw himself in his handsome uniform at the head of his company. Truth and justice are once more acknowledged. The hour of humiliation and pain has gone by. The time he had so long looked for had arrived. He listened calmly to the tschorbadji’s announcement that on the morrow his uniform would be ready, as well as those of his soldiers, which were to be sent, at once to Cavalla.

“There will be a number of uniforms, and the young boulouk bashi can make his choice from among them.”

“And the sword, my father, the sword, I will give to my friend Mohammed Ali!” cried Osman, joyously. “Do you remember the gold- handled sword given me by the grand-vizier on his last visit? I have kept it jealously, though, alas! I can never wear it myself. And now my friend shall wear it in my place, and, when I see him pass by with the glittering weapon at his side, it will seem as if I carried it myself in defence of my beloved country. Come with me, Mohammed,” said he, taking his friend’s arm. “You are in need of rest. You have been deeply moved, and now let us retire. It is quiet within my father’s apartments; there we will betake ourselves and repose together.”

“We will all follow you,” said the governor.–“I pray Cousrouf Pacha to accompany us. The day is bright and lovely, and I think we all stand in need of rest and refreshment. There we will take our coffee, and at the same time something more substantial together, and, enveloped by the smoke from our pipes, we will discuss the events of this day, which commenced so stormily, and now seems to end so pleasantly to our general joy.”

“Who knows, tschorbadji, that it brings joy to all?” said Cousrouf Pacha, sneeringly. “I, of course, have cause to rejoice and be thankful, this day. But it strikes me, Mohammed Ali is by nature little inclined to be thankful. Instead of joyfully receiving his honors, he seems to gaze wrathfully upon us all.”

“I think I have cause to do so,” said Mohammed, impetuously turning to him.

“And wherefore?” said Cousrouf Pacha. “Wherefore? Speak on.”

“Well,” said Mohammed, “many, I think, receive honors which they have not deserved, and have done naught to earn, as if they were to be bought, and they knew how to purchase them. I say that honor, power, and consideration, often spring from hypocrisy and slavish submission; and that through cunning, deceit, and shame, many a free human soul becomes abject and lost. I hope I am understood by Cousrouf Pacha!”

“I regret that I can neither understand nor explain these strange words. But you must feel, tachorbadji, that I have to deny myself the pleasure of remaining longer with you in the company of this wild young man, whose mind seems bewildered by the honors conferred on him. Enjoy yourselves in quiet repose, and be happy at your feast.”

“Do as it suits you,” cried Mohammed. “I shall not share it. I am exhausted, and shall retire to rest and refresh myself. Farewell!”

He bowed his head, and carried his hand in greeting both to lip and brow. He then turned, and hastened rapidly away.

The pacha followed him with an evil glance. “The forward youth is forever in my path,” said he, threateningly. “It was well for him he withdrew, for it might have come to bitter enmity between us. Should he dare again what he this day ventured upon, his life would no longer be secure. Being a guest in your house, and meeting him there, made me considerate to-day. But woe unto him should he cross my path, when no such considerations restrain me! Bitterly shall he repent of his words.”

CHAPTER VII

THE MESSENGER.

Joy and merriment prevailed throughout the day in the village of Praousta; a continuous firing of guns was kept up, which delighted the boys, and terrified the sick, and the timid little girls. Joyous songs were sung, and, on the grand square before the mosque, men and women assembled for a dance.

The tambourine rang out merrily, and cymbals and flutes filled the air with sweet sounds.

A sail on the water was arranged for the afternoon, and the boats were gayly decked with flags for the occasion.

In the first large boat the sheik, the ulemas, and the leading men of the village, were reposing on carpets. Two boats containing the musicians followed; and then came, in four gayly-adorned ones, the women of the village, enveloped in their white veils, and greeting the men in the other boats with their bright eyes only. It was a beautiful spectacle. The sea itself seemed to rejoice over it; it murmured softly, and curled its waves caressingly upon the beach.

The governor, accompanied by his distinguished guest, Cousrouf Pacha, had come down to Praousta. Both were saluted from the boats with shouts of applause; handkerchiefs and caps were waved, and the blessing of Allah and of the prophet invoked upon their heads. But curses also resounded from time to time from their midst.

“These two gentlemen are kind-hearted. They saved us, and Mohammed Ali alone was the cause of all our trouble and anxiety. Woe to the traitor! He wished to make himself a name, to mount to honor and power upon our shoulders, though we should be ground down in the dust. Woe to him! woe to him ! The governor is kind, we have nothing to fear from him. Mohammed Ali alone is our foe–woe to him!”

This was the cry from one to the other; all joined in it; they all raised their fists menacingly against Mohammed Ali. “May he hear our curses, and see our threatening hands! We will be avenged on him for what he has done to us. He shall be repaid for all the evil he has done to the sheik; of this he can rest assured. We have loved and been kind to him; we have treated him as if he were our child; he is indebted to us for all he is, and for all he can do. From us he learned to manage a boat, to use a gun–and thus has he rewarded us. Woe to him!” This cry resounded again and again from boat to boat:

“Woe to him! Woe to Mohammed Ali, the son of Sitta Khadra!”

But he heard nothing of all this; neither the curses, nor the laughter and shouts of joy. He had gone to his solitary resort on the rock above. There he was alone, without fear of being observed by the eyes of men. There no one could hear his wails of anguish. There he was alone with wind and waves. Alas, how short a time had elapsed since he had stood there in joy and exultation! His soul had revelled in all the delights of the world, in all the glories of Paradise. Only a few hours had passed, and yet it seemed to him that he was entirely transformed, that he had became another man since then.

With what pious thoughts, with what ecstasy had he, that morning, greeted the rising sun! His heart had been filled with ineffable bliss; tears of delight had stood in his eyes. Now the evening is sinking down, the first evening after that blissful sunrise, and vanished is all he had gloried in; lost, all he believed he had won. A white dove had fluttered down from heaven, he had seen a fair swan full of innocence and loveliness at his side; and now, the white dove had transformed itself into a monster, and the fair swan had become an evil spirit. Yes, an evil spirit had assumed the form of a swan, and cast a wicked spell over his heart, and now–O Mohammed, learn to suffer! Rend yourself with your agony; press your hands convulsively to your breast till the blood trickles out from your finger-nails; cry out in your anguish, till the eagle, aroused in his nest, looks out with greedy eyes after the poor creature that has dared to disturb the king of the air! Let curses resound from the quivering lips that are as pale as those of the dead! Curse the swan for having become a ghin; the white swan for having transformed herself into a cat, and then awake from your despair. Behold her standing before you with the sweet expression on her delicate features, with the blushing cheeks as you raise the veil, with the crimson lips that grow more crimson still as yours touch them. Behold her, in all her loveliness, and kneel down on the place where she stood, and passionately kiss the earth her feet have touched. Bless her in your love, and curse her in the anger of your hatred!

First love is passionate in its bliss, burning its agony, and agony and bliss, fury and delight, are all pouring through your soul, and giving you the baptism of pain, making of the youth a man.

“Tear love from my soul, and enable me to tread it under foot!” he cries out fiercely, as he now rises from the place he had just touched with his lips. “Root out these memories from my breast, spirit of my mother! She to whom I here prayed, and swore fidelity, has proved untrue. Strike blind the eyes of my soul, that they may no longer see this horror! Make deaf my ears, that I may no longer hear the sweet voice that sounds like heavenly music! What was it she said, what were her words?

“‘I will be thine, and love no other but thee!’ she said. ‘By my mother’s spirit, I swear to you that no other man shall lift this veil from my face; I will be thine, alone!’

“It was music when she said it. It filled my heart with heavenly joyousness. And now it proves to have been evil spirits only, who had come up from the deep to deceive a poor heart! Oh, these memories, they will follow me like a black shadow throughout life. In wild merriment and conflict, I shall be able to hush them in the noisy day; but, in the stillness of the night, they will come back to charm–no, to tear my heart! O Masa, Masa, what have you done!”

Overwhelmed with his agony, he sank to the ground, and kissed again and again the place where she had stood, and wept aloud.

“Mohammed!” suddenly exclaimed a voice behind him. “Mohammed Ali! The man who weeps has no manly courage, and it would be vain to call on him for assistance!”

Is another evil spirit beside him? What woman is this who suddenly appears at his side, closely shrouded in a black veil? Is it another ghin come up from the deep?

“You are right,” murmured he, “no one need longer hope for assistance from me; I will give vengeance and destruction to those who call on me for help!”

He springs to his feet and stares fiercely at the woman. “Away from me! Allah is Allah, the only one in heaven, and Mohammed is his prophet. Away from me, evil spirit!”

He exorcises this creature with the oath with which evil spirits are driven out. But it seems this spirit is not to be exorcised. The veiled woman remains quietly standing, regarding him sorrowfully.

“Mohammed, there are many who suffer, and yet do not break out into loud lamentations. Many a woman wails in the silence of her chamber; the lamentation of many a young girl resounds, unheard and unheeded, through the harem. I know a girl, Mohammed Ali, who weeps and laments, because she well knows that one whom she looked upon and greeted in the holy stillness of the morning as though he were her lord, entering the harem for the first time–that this one wrongfully accuses her, calls her faithless; yes, perhaps at this very moment, appeals to Allah for vengeance for a crime which she has not committed; for a wrong that does not burden her soul!”

“You know such a girl?” he cries, with loud, mocking laughter. “You are fortunate in knowing her. I do not know such a girl; I only know that they are all deceitful and traitorous.”

“Then you assuredly do not know this one! She is as pure as an angel, and her name is Masa.”

“Masa!” he exclaims, in loud and joyous tones. Then his countenance darkens, and, raising his clinched fists threateningly, he cries: “Masa! you deceive yourself. Of all deceitful women she is the worst. Do not say that I deceive myself with regard to her; I saw, with my own eyes, that which gives me death; that which will forever gnaw at my heart. Away from me, and announce to her who sent you that no woman shall ever deceive Mohammed again.”

He turns to descend from the rock, but the woman holds him fast, regarding him with an anxious, entreating look.

“Do you wish to kill my darling, the beloved child of my mistress? Listen, Mohammed! On her death-bed the mother confided to me her only child. Grasping her cold hand, I swore by Allah that I would hold her as my own, that I would watch over and guard her from all evil. This morning I found my darling in an agony of grief. She did not go out with the joyous crowd, but remained at home in her own little room. I saw her wringing her hands, and heard her entreating Allah to take her life. I entered her room and said to her: ‘O Masa, you know that your Djumeila is true to you. Confide in her. Tell me all that grieves you. What is it that gives you pain?’ After I had thus appealed to her for a long time, she arose from her knees, fell on my neck, and whispered in my ear a wondrous tale of the starry sky, of sunrise, and heavenly delight, of the bliss and pain of love. And I swore by Allah and the prophet, by the spirit of her mother, that I would never speak to another a word of what she had told me! But, because I love the child of my mistress, the child that is to me as my own, so dearly, I promised that I would go to the man she loves and tell him everything in her name.”

“Then go seek him she loves! You will find him in the governor’s palace; there he sits enthroned in the midst of his grand and brilliant harem. She longs to see the doors of this harem thrown open to her. Go to him and tell what you have to say. You will be welcome.”

“I knew to whom I was to go, and I have already reached my destination. The heart of a woman who loves can see the absent like that of a sorceress. Masa said to me: ‘Go up the rock to the highest point; there we vowed eternal fidelity to each other. I know he will be there! He will seek to wipe out the traces of our morning communion with his curses, perhaps, too, with his tears.’ Now I am at the place to which Masa sent me, and here, too, is he to whom she sent me. Mohammed Ali, do not turn from me, do not shake your head. Rather let us sit down, and listen to what Djumeila has to say.”

He did not reply. He only made a motion as if to shake off the hand she had laid on his arm, in order to draw him down to her side. But now against his will he permits her to draw him down to a seat on the stone beside her.

“Listen, Mohammed! Masa is at home, locked in her room. She weeps and laments, and has sworn to me by her mother’s spirit that she would die to-night. The waves are to close over her if Mohammed does not rescue her from disgrace and misery. Listen, Mohammed, and take what I say to heart. Will you do so, Mohammed!”

“Well, then, I will!” said he, after a short pause. “May Allah judge you if you are about to deceive me again!”

“Then incline your ear closer to me, that the ghins may not hear what I say and carry it further. What Masa confided to me is intended for you only.”

He inclines his head close to hers. For a long time she whispers and speaks to him in impressive tones; and he listens at first against his will, but gradually a new life courses through his being, a delicate color suffuses itself over his pale cheeks, and his brow quivers with emotions of mingled joy and pain.

The woman continues to speak in low, earnest tones.

When she has finished, Mohammed bounds to his feet. Suddenly he is completely changed. His eyes sparkle, his lips smile and part to give utterance to a cry, to a loud, piercing, joyous cry, such as the eagle utters when he returns after a long journey and sees his young looking up and opening their beaks to greet him. He felt that he must cry out to relieve his breast. He extends his arms into the air, as though he saw before him the white dove, and wished to clasp it to his heart; as though he saw on the murmuring sea at his feet the swan approaching, singing to him the song of holy virgin purity and of chaste maidenly love.

“O how beautiful is the world!” he exclaims, exultingly. “How heavenly to live in it! But then this is not earthly delight, but the bliss of Paradise. I shall enter Paradise to-day, and be one of the blessed; I shall revel in heavenly joys already here on earth as man never did before. Come, Djumeila, and listen to my words. Come to this spot. See, here she stood this morning; here she exchanged with me vows of eternal fidelity, and this holy place I have consecrated with my tears and my despair. I was a fool; oh, forgive, Masa, forgive me, and I will repay you with life-long devotion. So long as a drop of blood flows in my veins will I love you and belong to you alone. Come, seat yourself beside me, Djumeila, and listen attentively to each word I shall speak to you.”

CHAPTER VIII

VANISHED.

The inhabitants of Praousta had insisted on making the release of the sheik and the ulemas the occasion of general rejoicing, and the latter were compelled to yield to the general desire and take part in the festivities.

But it is well that evening is now come, and that the night is spreading her rest-bringing mantle over the earth. It is well that the opportunity has at last come to breathe freely in the stillness of one’s chamber, and to thank Allah, with earnest prayer, for having given them a happy issue out of the cares and dangers of the preceding day.

The sheik has finished his prayer in the silence of his chamber. He now lightly ascends the stairway to the harem where his beloved child, his Masa, sojourns. Before the door of her chamber sits Djumeila, the faithful servant, and with upraised hand she motions to the sheik to step softly and make no noise, that Masa may not be disturbed.

“You know, master, that she has been complaining the whole day. Anxiety and care for you, and the pain and exposure she has endured, have made my dove ill, and she has gone to her room to rest and restore her strength. She therefore requests you, through me, to allow her to remain undisturbed until tomorrow morning. She has not been able to sleep at all during the day, and has continually wept and complained; but at last, toward evening she partook of some food and fell asleep. Yesterday she was so courageous and strong, but today she has been weak and dejected. Before going to sleep she called me to her bedside and told me to bear her greeting to her father; and to say to him that she hoped to be entirely recovered by tomorrow morning, and would come down to breakfast to hand you, my master, your coffee and chibouque.”

“It is well,” said the sheik, softly. “Let my child rest, let my Masa sleep; tread lightly, and be careful that you do not disturb her. I, too, feel that I need sleep. Let the whole house repose, and avoid making any noise before tomorrow morning. Then I will come to her room to see her.”

The old man took off his shoes and noiselessly descended the stairway to his bed-chamber. It was now still in the house. All Praousta was silent. The people were resting from the pleasures of today, and the anxiety and care of yesterday.

In Cavalla, also, all was now quiet. The windows of the tschorbadji’s palace were dark, and silence prevailed everywhere. The governor and his son Osman had retired to rest.

In the apartments occupied by Cousrouf Pacha darkness also prevails, and in the harem the blinds have been let down behind the latticed windows. One room alone is dimly lighted. On the table stands a silver lamp, which sheds a faint light through the spacious room, upon the gold-embroidered caftan of the pacba, and upon his proud, gloomy countenance. He rises from his seat, and walks hastily through the room. He then suddenly stands still. The pacha waits the arrival of the girl he has purchased with the blood-money given for her father.

All is quiet in the tschorbadji’s palace, and also in the sheik’s house. The windows are dark, the gate is locked. Now she will come: she has given her word; she has sworn by Allah; she has sworn by the spirit of her mother; she has sworn by all she holds sacred. She will come for the daughter of Alepp knows that one who breaks a treble oath is doomed to inevitable destruction, and walks a welcome prey to the evil spirits, to the ghins. Surely, she will not dare to do this! She will come–she must come.

Something rustles in the garden. The pacha steps hastily to the window, throws it open, and looks out eagerly into the darkness. It is well that the moon is at this moment concealed by clouds; he might otherwise now see her coming up the walk from the end of the avenue. No, nothing approaches. It is not the beautiful virgin, with the eyes of the gazelle, with the light, airy step. How beautiful she is, how fair, how lovely! Is she not yet coming? Does he not hear approaching footsteps? No, neither of the eunuchs is stealthily approaching to announce to his mighty master that the virgin has entered the harem.

He stands and waits, his face quivering with anger and impatience. He is angry with the girl for daring to come so late. But come she will, and come she must; for whoever breaks the treble oath is lost before Allah and the prophet. He remains at the window, looking out into the quiet garden and dark night for a long time. The wind extinguishes the lamp that stands on the table. Now all is profound darkness. It is dark in the garden, and in the room. It is dark, too, in Cousrouf Pacha’s breast.

“Woe to her, if she dares to break her oath! In that case, I will go, with my servants, in the broad light of day, to-morrow, to the sheik’s house, and demand my property–my slave. Mine is she, for I purchased her with money which she accepted. Then, however, she shall not be my queen, but my slave–my servant. Come she shall, by Allah! I must possess her, for I love her with all the passion of my heart.”

He bends forward, and listens attentively again. He hardly dares to breathe, and his heart throbs loudly as he anxiously gazes out into the garden. He does not notice that the hours are rapidly passing; to him it seems an eternity of waiting.

Without, at the garden-gate, the two watchful eunuchs are still standing. They, like their master, have been looking out into the darkness, and listening throughout the entire night.

“No sign of her yet,” said one of the eunuchs to the other. “Woe to the girl if she dares to deceive our mighty master! She thinks, perhaps, he will abandon his claim. There will be a nice piece of work to be done tomorrow. Cousrouf Pacha, our mighty master, is not in the habit of being trifled with. He will send us down after his property, and there will be no lack of bloody heads in Praousta, tomorrow; for we shall certainly have to regain possession of this slave. He says she accepted the purchase-money, and she therefore belongs to the master who bought her. Will she come, or shall we have to get possession of her by force tomorrow?”

“I hope she will come of her own word,” said the other. “These fishermen are so brave, and have such hard fists.”

“And I hope she will not,” said the first, laughing. “We must take her by force. I should relish just such a row. If they have hard fists, we have sharp, glittering weapons. And then, as you know, the soldiers are coming to take up their quarters here tomorrow; the tschorbadji will send a part of them to help us when the company arrives.”

The pacha is still standing at the window, looking out into the night. He raises his hands threateningly, and his eyes glitter like those of the panther, lying in wait for his prey.

“Woe to her if she breaks the triple oath! Cousrouf Pacha will know how to avenge himself. She must become mine–she is mine already. I have bought this slave, and, by Allah, what I have bought I will also possess!”

At last, day dawns. The sun sends out into the heavens its purple heralds, and it begins to grow lighter in the garden. The pacha now sees a figure coming up the walk. It is one of the eunuchs. He goes noiselessly into the house, to his master.

“Has she come?” asks he, with quivering lips.

“No, master, she has not come. The path that leads up from the village is still empty. Shall we wait longer, master?”

” No,” he gruffly replies. “Lock the gate and retire to the harem. It must be a misunderstanding; she supposed I meant the following evening. Go!”

The eunuch prostrates himself to the earth, and takes his departure, gliding stealthily out into the garden. When he feels assured that no one can see or hear him, be stands still, and laughs mockingly: “It is a great pleasure to see a grand gentleman now and then humiliated like the rest of us. He was terribly annoyed; I could tell it by his voice. Serves him right! I am delighted to see that grand gentlemen have to put up with disagreeable things sometimes, too–truly delighted.”

With a sorrowful expression of countenance he now walks on down to the garden-gate, where the other eunuch is waiting, and tells him his gracious master has made his reckoning without his host, and that his purchased slave’s failure to come has grieved him deeply.

They looked at each other, and the dawning light showed that they nodded triumphantly, with a malicious, mocking grin. They understood each other well, without telling in words what they were laughing about and rejoicing over.

The morning had come in its full splendor, and the town and village had again awakened to life and activity. The sheik, too, had arisen; had already turned to the east, and finished his prayers, and repaired to his daughter’s room. She had told him, through her servant, the evening before, that she would come to him early in the morning, to hand him his coffee and chibouque. But Masa, did not come, and the father’s heart is filled with an inexplicable feeling of anxiety. He hastily ascends the stairway. Djumeila no longer watches before the door; she has gone, and is perhaps busied with her morning occupations.

The sheik opens the door of his daughter’s sitting-room.

“Masa” he cries, “it is time to come down to breakfast.” He supposes she is within, in her bedchamber, and has not heard him. “Masa,” he cries again, “come out, my child, come to your father.”

All is still as before. He calls for the third time; no one replies.

“Masa, where are you, my child?” The sheik anxiously walks through the sitting-room to the little chamber where his daughter’s bed stands: no one there either. ” Masa, my child, my darling, where are you?”

He stands still, listening for an answer; he breathes heavily when as yet no answer comes, but consoles himself with the thought that she has already gone down, and is awaiting him below, while he is seeking her in her rooms above.

Hastily, with the quick step of youth, the sheik descends the stairway again, but Masa was not there. The father’s calls grow louder and more anxious.

“Masa, where are you? My beloved child, come to your father.”

All remains still. No answer comes to the father’s anxious calls.

The sheik now hurries to the kitchen, where breakfast is being prepared; Djumeila is standing there at the hearth, perfectly composed, attending to her cooking. She salutes her master with a deferential air.

“Where is Masa, my daughter? ” cries the sheik.

“I do not know, master,” she quietly replies; “I have not yet seen her today. Early in the morning, before sunrise, I went out to the meadow to milk the goats, that my child, my darling Masa, might have fresh sweet milk for her breakfast; since then I have been occupied with getting breakfast ready, and now you ask me ‘Where is Masa?'”

“Spare your words and listen: Masa has vanished; Masa is not in her room.”

Djumeila cries out loudly: “Where is Masa? where is my white dove?”

She rushes out and runs to her mistress’s room; and, not finding her there, falls to weeping and wringing her hands in despair.

“Where is my beloved child? she is not with her father, she is not in her room.” She then hastens to the other maid-servant. “Where is Masa? has no one seen my master’s daughter? has no one seen my beloved child?”

The sheik stood in the hall and listened to Djumeila’s cries and the answer of the other servant. He then walked rapidly all over the house again, called his daughter’s name loudly once more, and stood still to listen for an answer.

“But it is foolish to be so anxious. Masa is fond of going out to the sea to listen to the murmuring and whispering of the waves. My child is pious, and may have gone to the mosque to pray and to thank Allah. That is it–she has gone to the mosque.”

The sheik rushes out into the street. It is well that the mosque is not far from his dwelling. The doors are open; Masa is surely there, probably on her knees in one of the recesses, addressing herself to her prayers. No, she is not there; the recesses are empty, and she is not up in the choir with the women either.

“She is nowhere in the mosque; but she may be down on the beach.”

The sheik no longer felt the weight of his years, he no longer felt exhausted by the fatigues of the preceding day.

He is young again, and his blood is coursing through his veins. With head erect and firm footstep he walks down to the beach.

“Masa, my child, come to me; hasten to your father’s arms!” he cries; so loudly that his voice drowns the noise of the rushing waves. But no one replies. Masa is not there.

A wild cry of terror resounds from his lips, he sinks down upon the shore exhausted, and stares out at the waves as though he would ask, “Have you seen my child; has she gone to you; has she sought a resting-place in your cold bosom?” Yet why should she do so? Masa is happy and loves her father, why does she then torment him thus? Masa must have gone to some of her neighbors. She has many friends; every woman and girl that Masa knows loves her on account of her happy disposition, her innocence, and her loveliness. She will have returned home long since. Djumeila cannot know that her master has gone out, or she would have called him.

“Masa is surely at home!”

The old man returns to his dwelling with the quick step of a youth. Djumeila is standing in the door-way, weeping and lamenting loudly

“Master, my child, my Masa, is gone! Allah be merciful, and take me from this earth, now that my Masa is no longer here!”

The sheik says not a word. He neither speaks nor weeps, but only beckons to the men who have been drawn to the spot by Djumeila’s loud lamentations. When they have come near, he bends down close to them, as if to prevent even the wind from hearing him, and whispers in their ears: “My child is gone. Masa is not in the mosque. Masa is not on the beach, and is not with the neighbors!”

The men regarded him with dismay; and, supposing they must have misunderstood his words, ask each other, “What did the sheik say?”

He then shrieks, as if to make himself heard by the heavens and the earth, by the mountains and the sea: “My child is gone! Masa is not in her father’s house, Masa is not at the mosque, and not on the beach! Where is my child?”

He then swoons away. Djumeila now rushes down the street, and her cries of anguish resound through all Praousta.

“Masa, the sheik’s daughter, has disappeared! Where is Masa? Up, ye men and women, let us search for her. Let us search everywhere– among the rocks and cliffs, in the hills and in the valleys. Masa, the sheik’s daughter, is gone!”

From every house, men, women, and children, rush out and gaze at each other in sorrow and dismay. “Masa, our sheik’s daughter, has vanished! let us search for her.” And now they begin the search. People are to be seen running in every direction–to the rocks above, down to the shore. The air everywhere resounds with their loud cries:

“Masa, daughter of the sheik, where are you?”

Suddenly the music of the trumpet, cymbal and fife, and the roll of the drum, breaks in upon and mingles with these tumultuous cries. With warlike music the company of soldiers from the nearest city marches into Praousta, in accordance with the command given by the governor to his captain.

The men have been on the march all night, and now enter the village in the broad light of day, with their band playing.

The military music rings out so loud and clear that the cries of lamentation are no longer heard. The crowd stand still and gaze at the gaudily-attired men who are marching into Cavalla. The tschorbadji is standing with his distinguished guest, Cousrouf Pacha, in the court-yard of the palace. He has requested him to be present at the reception of the soldiers. The pacha’s countenance and bearing are unchanged–all haughtiness and dignity–only his cheeks are paler and his glance more threatening than usual. As he now turns toward the gate of the court-yard, Mohammed Ali, the boulouk bashi, appears for the first time, attired in his handsome, glittering uniform, advancing with his company toward the palace. On the governor’s left stands his son Osman, who has risen from his couch, overcoming for the moment his weakness and ill-health in order to participate in the triumph of witnessing Mohammed Ali lead his company, as boulouk bashi, for the first time.

Yes, there comes Mohammed Ali, marching at the head of his company, to the sound of the martial music. He holds his sword uplifted in his right hand, and salutes the governor as he approaches by lowering its point to the ground with a deferential glance. He recognizes his friend, and Osman joyously returns the greeting. Mohammed seems to him entirely changed at this moment, his figure taller and more powerful. His countenance is manly and joyous, his eyes sparkle with a mysterious fire, a smile plays about his lips, and his whole bearing is firm and commanding.

It is not Osman alone who sees this change. Cousrouf Pacha has also observed it. His countenance darkens. He compresses his lips as if to repress a curse that is struggling for utterance. Yet he retains his air of indifference and grave countenance, though his cheeks grow a shade paler, and his brow somewhat darker.

The band plays a lively air. Mohammed conducts his soldiers before the eyes of the governor and his guest through a series of movements and evolutions which he has long since practiced in secret. As they now advance toward him, “Right about, halt!” resounds Mohammed’s word of command; and his soldiers stand there like a wall.

“Well done,” said Cousrouf Pacha, with a gracious inclination of the head. He then added in a loud voice, in order that Mohammed should hear him: “You see, governor, street boys can watch soldiers exercising to some purpose. Mohammed has not stared at them on the street in vain.”

He turns and leaves the court-yard, repairs to his private apartments, and calls the two eunuchs who had held the fruitless watch at the gate the previous night.

“When the soldiers have left the court-yard, twelve of their number will be placed at your disposal. Let them load their muskets and unsheath their swords. Then go to Praousta, to the sheik’s house, and demand the restoration of my slave. Demand it in my name. If her father refuses, search the house and every place connected with it. Break open the doors if he refuses to unlock them. If you do not find her there, search the other houses of the village. I must have her! If you do not find her to-day, then find her to-morrow or the next day. I will allow you a week’s time in which to get possession of this runaway slave. If you do not return her, your heads shall fall! Remember that! Stop, one thing more: observe and watch the new boulouk bashi. Select some of my servants to follow him day and night, and to observe every thing he does, yet without letting him become aware of it, for he is a shrewd lad and a daring one, too. Now, you can go.”

While the company is still standing drawn up in the court-yard, the tschorbadji beckons Mohammed Ali to his side, and enters the palace with him.

“Mohammed, it is evident that you will become a brave and efficient soldier. You have courage; now learn to control your anger, to govern yourself, and then you will know how to command others. See, this purse filled with gold-pieces is the captain’s salary for three months, which I pay in advance, as the young boulouk bashi will have to incur some necessary expenses, and will therefore be glad to accept a payment in advance.”

Mohammed thanked the governor, and received the first salary of his new dignity with perfect composure, though a sudden sparkling in his eyes indicated how much he rejoiced over it.

Osman, however, can read his friend’s countenance well. As the governor turns away, Osman throws his arms around Mohammed’s neck and whispers in his ear: “You stand there radiant like a hero, and all the bliss of the world and of love, too, is reflected in your countenance. O Mohammed, father says you should learn to control yourself, and I am satisfied you can. When my friend is harassed with sorrow and care his countenance bears no evidence of it, but happiness is not to be repressed and driven back to the heart in this way. It illumines the face of man like the sun. But I warn you, Mohammed, it is sometimes dangerous to let one’s countenance shine so. It easily awakens suspicion in the breast of an enemy, and he meditates revenge. Beware! Beware!

Mohammed regards his friend as though he did not understand him.

“What do you mean, Osman?”

“Nothing, nothing at all, Mohammed, except that it is sometimes dangerous to allow one’s happiness to be observed. Bear this in mind, my friend, and draw a veil over your radiant countenance.”

CHAPTER IX

WHERE IS SHE?

In Praousta, all was again uproar and confusion. Eight eunuchs of the mighty pacha, Cousrouf, accompanied by a detachment of twelve soldiers, came down from Cavalla at noon. They went directly to the house of the sheik, and demanded to see him.

Djumeila, her eyes red with weeping, came to the door and told them her master was ill with grief and anxiety on account of the disappearance of his daughter.

The eunuchs pushed her aside, and penetrated, in spite of her cries and attempts to bar their passage, into the room where the sheik lay on his divan, with pallid face and staring gaze. His lamentations were heartrending. His quivering lips continually cried: “Where is my daughter, where is my child?”

They roughly forced him to his feet, and with savage threats demanded of the old man that he should deliver over to them their master’s slave, his daughter Masa. Aroused from his torpor, he stares at them in amazement:

“Slave!” cried he. “And you call her Masa, and my daughter; and you say it is she? Who calls Masa, daughter of the sheik, his slave?”

“Our master does,” said they–“our master, Cousrouf Pacha.”

“How can the stranger dare to call the daughter of a free man, a free girl, his slave?”

“He dares do it because it is so,” replied the eunuchs, shrugging their shoulders; “Masa sold herself to his excellency, our gracious master, to Cousrouf Pacha, when she procured your release by paying the second tax. You thought it was done out of kindness. No, Masa sold herself to our gracious master, Cousrouf Pacha, for one hundred gold sequins.”

“That is false; you lie, you wretches! You lie in all you say! You lie!” cried the sheik. He now stood erect, regarding them threateningly. “Do not dare to speak to me thus again! Justice and law still live! No one can say that Masa, my daughter, is a slave; and may he who says it stand accursed before Allah and the prophets!”

The two eunuchs threw themselves upon him and held him fast. They then called two of the soldiers to their assistance, and bound him hand and foot. This done, they threw the old man contemptuously down upon his divan, and proceeded to ransack every part of the house in search of Masa, their master’s runaway slave.

There lay the sheik, bound and helpless, groaning and lamenting: “I am mad! I hear that which is not. I hear voices say that which cannot be. No, I am mad! It is impossible that Masa, the daughter of the Sheik of Praousta, is the slave of the stranger Turk! Impossible that I can have heard such a thing! Death or even madness is approaching me. It creeps stealthily toward me and stares at me wildly. O Masa, my daughter, come save your father!”

About him all was still, but in the rooms above was an uproar. He heard the heavy footsteps in the upper apartments, into which, until now, no man save the father had ever entered. They are going from room to room, throwing the daughter’s things about, ransacking her bedchamber, overthrowing furniture, and looking under carpets and mattresses, searching everywhere for the only daughter of the poor sheik. Then they go to the yard, to the stables. Masa is sought everywhere. But, Allah be praised, she cannot be found!

Without, before the door, stand the men and women of the village in a wide circle, gazing with dismay upon the eunuchs and the twelve soldiers, who now come out of the door, fall in line before the house, and demand of the people to tell them where Masa, the sheik’s daughter, is.

“We know not. We have not seen her. How can we tell you what has become of Masa, the sheik’s only daughter? She was as pure and good as ever girl was. No one looked at her. Who can tell where she is?”

“This is all pretence. Enough! we will go from house to house and search for Masa!”

With cries of rage the men attempt to oppose them, but the strange soldiers who have just arrived know no pity. They use their swords vigorously upon those who oppose them; the sight of blood terrifies the others, and the cries of the wounded silence them. The eunuchs’ soldiers are allowed to enter each house, for the men of Praousta are too poor to be able to provide for more than one wife, and the poor man’s wife has no separate, secluded apartments. She goes about in the house unveiled, and attends to her domestic occupations while her husband is out hunting or fishing. The search of the eunuchs and soldiers for the girl is therefore easily conducted; in each house there is but one wife and she is unveiled, as are also the children; the maidens, however, timidly shrink back and draw their veils more closely about them. The strange soldiers, however, do not go so far in their boldness as to raise the veils of the girls. And what would it avail them to do so? Neither they nor the eunuchs have ever seen the face of the sheik’s daughter.

“It is useless to search farther,” murmured the eunuchs, after having looked through the last house in the village, without finding Masa. “It is useless. It was useless to look for her elsewhere than in the sheik’s house, and there we did not find her. The law forbids our doing more, and the tschorbadji, when he placed the soldiers at the disposal of our gracious master, and ordered them to accompany us, expressly commanded that we should not enrage the men of Praousta to desperation, or to any thing contrary to law.”

“But remember, brother,” said the other eunuch, “what our master said. We must bring him back this runaway slave or we lose our heads! And truly I would much rather keep my head on my shoulders than have it rolled to the ground.”

“And so would I mine,” said the first. “Therefore we will do all we can to get possession of this slave. A week is a long time, and I hardly think we shall have to wait so long.”

“There is one other matter we must not lose sight of,” murmured the first eunuch, as they ascended the stairway to Cavalla, followed by the soldiers. “We are to watch the crazy young captain, the boulouk bashi, and report all he does, to our master. It seems to me there may be some connection between the young boulouk bashi and the flight of the slave. Let us keep our eyes open, for our heads are at stake.”

And with gloomy looks they presented themselves to their master on their return to the palace, to inform him that they had made thorough search for Masa in the sheik’s house, and had not found her.

“And have you nothing to report concerning the young man, Mohammed Ali?” asked the pasha.

The eunuchs informed him that they had not yet seen him, having as yet been wholly occupied with their search for the escaped slave; they would, however, have something to report to his excellency concerning the boulouk bashi on the following morning, or that very evening, perhaps.

“Who knows where Mohammed Ali now is?”

“He has not been seen at the palace since the reception of the soldiers in the court-yard.”

“He must have gone to the hut his mother once occupied, as he often does when he wishes to be alone.”

Of late he had been absent less than usual, having promised his friend Osman to live and stay with him. But now that he is captain of a company, it would perhaps not become him to remain at the palace as the tschorbadji’s guest; for this reason he would probably go to his own hut to take up his abode there. Yes, he has passed the night in his own little house, and he has just quitted it and walked into the main street of the city, on his way to the store of the merchant Lion.

The merchant saw him coming, and hastened forward to congratulate him on the high honor conferred upon him, and to rejoice over the stately appearance of the young man, who pleased him well in his uniform, with his sword at his side.

“Truly a beautiful uniform, Mohammed Ali, and I have but one regret, and that is that your mother, Sitta Khadra, is not here to see you in your magnificence. How she would rejoice to see her son, her heart’s darling, her Mohammed Ali, in all his glory!”

“I, too, wish my dear mother, Sitta Khadra, were here now,” said Mohammed, with a sigh. “I have never before missed and needed her as much as now; and you are right, too, in thinking she would rejoice could she see me now. Yes, with all her heart, Mr. Lion. Ah life, were beautiful indeed, if Death were not always standing threateningly before us! He takes from us what we love most, and esteem highest; we must ever be on our guard against him, and keep our door barred that he may not steal into our midst and rob us of some fair life.”

The merchant regards him with amazement. He has never heard the young boulouk bashi talk in this sentimental manner before, and it surprises him too, to see his countenance so changed–so radiant, serene, and cloudless, the chaste, thoughtful brows–so bright, the flash of his large brown eyes.

“Mohammed, my young friend, what bliss has Fortune bestowed on you? Tell your friend the secret; for, truly all that concerns and pleases you, gladdens my own heart. Tell me what has worked this change in you?”

“And you still ask? You see me in my uniform–in my glory, as you call it–it is this that has worked the change!”

The merchant shook his head. “No, it is not that, Mohammed Ali; that which sparkles in your eyes, and resounds from your lips in such joyous words, has nothing to do with your uniform or with your new dignity. It must be something entirely different; yet, if you do not wish to tell me, I will ask you no further. May Allah be with you in all things, and I will entreat the same of my God. I think and trust both will hear the prayer, for they are one and the same, after all. Now, my young friend, come into my store with me and let us chat with each other while we smoke the nargile, and refresh ourselves with a cup of coffee.–Ho! ye lads; Admeh, bring us coffee and the nargile, with some of the finest tobacco–some of that intended for the sultana at Stamboul, that is to be sent off to-morrow. There is great joy in my house to-day, for Mohammed Ali, the young boulouk bashi, is here.”

He seats himself on a cushion covered with Persian carpet, and requests Mohammed to seat himself on another at his side. He does as requested, but it does not escape the merchant’s observant eye that he conforms to this hospitable usage with impatience, and does not wish to remain long. He therefore does not urge him to remain when he, after a short time, rises and asks the merchant to go with him to the store.

He wishes to buy all sorts of things. He has received his first salary from the tschorbadji to-day, and desires to spend a portion of it for some of the pretty things of which there are such quantities and varieties in the merchant’s store.

“It depends on what you wish, Mohammed. Is it carpets or cushions? or is it female attire or jewelry? Do you want mirrors, embroidered veils, or silken shawls? What is it you want?”

Somewhat confused and embarrassed, Mohammed looks at the merchant and hardly knows what to say.

“Then let me have a carpet; I wish to spread it out in my room. I have, until now, changed nothing in my hut, but have left it just as it was when Sitta Khadra lived in it. Now, however, it seems to me that it would not perhaps become the boulouk bashi to continue to live so wretchedly.”

“Yes, the old story–with office comes pride,” said the merchant, laughing. “The boulouk bashi, of course, needs carpets and all sorts of furniture. Here is an arm-chair inlaid with mother-of-pearl; does it suit? Here are Persian carpets; the colors are a little faded, and you can have them at a low price.”

“No, nothing with faded colors. Let me have your most beautiful carpet! Let the ground be white and covered with flowers, with roses and violets; and I wish, too, they could have life and fragrance!”

“Oho, Mr. Boulouk Bashi!” cried the merchant, laughing, and raising his finger threateningly. “Now the secret is out; you are in, love! This carpet is not for yourself, but for some beautiful woman. Ah, yes, I have heard something about this affair before, and now I know it is true.”

“What have you heard, sir? What is it that is said of me?” asked Mohammed, gravely, his countenance suddenly darkening.

“Well, people ask why it is that Osman, the tschorbadji’s son, is so very affectionate to you, and why the governor himself has always so distinguished you, and now made you boulouk bashi?”

“I had supposed it was because I deserved it,” said Mohammed, hastily, “and I thought Osman showed his affection because he loved the friend who had grown up with him.”

“He assuredly does love you, and the tschorbadji also rewards you on account of your merit, or he would not have done so at all, and would not have chosen you for what he desires of you.”

“And what does he desire of me? For what has he chosen me?”

“It is said he wishes you to become the husband of the beautiful Marina, his niece.”

“I do not even know this lady,” said Mohammed, shrugging his shoulders.

“You do not know her, but she perhaps knows you,” said the merchant, smiling. “She is very beautiful, it is said. She is married, as you are aware, to my rival, the merchant across the street, I have observed that this fair lady opens her shutters, to peep out at Mohammed, whenever he passes by. The neighbors say this is why her husband has become jealous, and threatens to drive her away, if she continues to look after the young men. You now perceive, Mohammed, that Marina, the tschorbadji’s niece, has an eye on you, and perhaps even two, and that her husband knows it. The peace of the house has thus been broken on your account, and the people say the tschorbadji will now take his niece home again, and that you are to marry her afterward. It is a good match, Mohammed, a very good match. I shall be disappointed if you do not marry this lady. She is rich, very rich; and are you aware that, with your epaulets, your uniform, and your handsome sword, you must have money. Moreover, my son, he who intends to rise in the world must have a great deal of money! It is not through his own merit that a man is advanced. If he is poor, he remains in the dust. You know I have offered to assist you, but you refused me because you did not wish to accept benefits, and you were right. My advice you can, however, accept; and my advice is, marry the beautiful, the rich Marina, when her husband divorces her, and sufficient time has elapsed. She is very young, younger than you; my young friend Mohammed numbers eighteen years, and the tschorbadji’s young niece only fifteen. Take my advice, and preserve your heart until it is time to let its wings grow, and then stretch out your hand after the fair Marina.”

“Thanks for your advice,” cried Mohammed, laughing.

Never before had the merchant heard him laugh so heartily; never before had he seen him make such a display of his white teeth. Until to-day, Mohammed had been a remarkably grave youth. What can it be that makes him look so joyous and laugh so heartily all of a sudden?

“Let us, however, hear no more about this fair Marina. I do not know her, and have never seen her. That is to say, I may have seen her once or twice, with Osman, when we happened to pass the veiled woman and her husband on the street, and I believe she did stand still and look after us. I thought, at the time, it was on Osman’s account, and probably it was. How could the rich lady have turned to look at the poor lad Mohammed Ali? And now to other matters. Show me goods, show me carpets, and I want the best and the handsomest. The carpet is to lie where my mother’s mat once lay, and on which she died; and this spot cannot be too handsomely adorned. Therefore, give me a costly carpet.”

“Let it be just as you say,” said the merchant, smiling. He then called his servants, and ordered them to bring down his handsomest carpets, and spread them out before the young captain, in order that he might select one.

“You want nothing else, only a carpet?”

Mohammed turned his head a little to one side, and avoided meeting the merchant’s keen gaze. ” O yes, a number of other things. I want some table-ware, cups, glasses, and the like. I also want,” he continued talking rapidly, and with forced indifference, “I also want a warm woollen cloak, such as women wear. I promised a cloak to an old friend of my mother. Give me a warm woollen cloak.”

The merchant made no reply. He only smiled significantly, and brought out the goods; dark, plain goods, such as became an old woman, and a friend of poor Sitta Khadra.

But Mohammed promptly rejected it. That would not be nice enough for a present. He wanted better, finer material, and in lighter colors.

The merchant expressed no astonishment, but silently brought out finer goods. Mohammed selected the very handsomest cloak for the old friend of his deceased mother. Finally, he timidly asked for finger- rings and bracelets.

“Also for the old friend of your good mother Khadra?” inquired the merchant, with an air of mock gravity.

Mohammed did not reply; he had probably not heard him. He quietly selected, from the box handed him, a beautiful ring set with a precious stone, then four beautiful cups and saucers of the finest Chinese porcelain, and a variety of other articles necessary for housekeeping. He concluded by demanding a pair of pillows and coverlids.

Mr. Lion asks no more questions; he now knows that Mohammed intends to marry, and is furnishing his house. He is satisfied, and lets his young friend have all he has selected at half the price he would have charged other purchasers.

Mohammed joyfully paid the price, and gazed at the beautiful articles he had purchased, with sparkling eyes.

“If you wish it, Mohammed,” said the merchant, “I will send a servant with you.”

“Thank you; I am going to my house, and he can accompany me with the things.”

Mohammed took leave of the merchant, and left the store, the servant following heavily laden.

After a few moments Mohammed, however, turned, and came back to the merchant, who was standing on the threshold looking after him.

“One thing more, dear sir. You are my friend, and, as I well know, mean well by me,” said he, in low, hasty tones.

“Certainly, Mohammed Ali, and gladly would I prove to you my friendship.”

“You can do so; tell no one of my purchases–no one,” replied Mohammed with a look of entreaty.

The merchant promised to be silent on the subject.

“Thank you, kind friend. I am happy; yet all depends on Allah’s blessing.”

He pressed the merchant’s hand once more, and walked out, hastily beckoning to the servant, who had remained standing in the street, to follow him. He then walked on to the little hut of his mother Khadra.

He pushes open the door, and the servant follows him into the room. The bundle is laid on the floor, on the place where his mother died, and Mohammed generously and proudly, like a man of rank, hands the servant a gratuity, and bids him return. He walks off well pleased, and Mohammed is now left alone in his mother’s hut.

An old woman is sitting just opposite the hut. She was there when he entered, smoking a short pipe, her arms crossed on her knees. She looked about carelessly, only now and then casting a glance at the house of the young boulouk bashi, who had locked himself in.

Mohammed had thought nothing of her presence. What cared he for the old woman there on the stone, smoking her pipe?

When, after a short time, he steps out of his hut, she stretches out her hand and begs for alms.

Hardly looking at her, he draws a copper coin from his pocket, gives it to her and walks on.

The old woman keeps her seat, and mutters a few words to herself.

Mohammed walks on rapidly.

A boy is skipping along on the other side of the street, whistling a merry air.

What does this concern Mohammed? He walks on down the street on the one side, the boy follows him on the other.

Mohammed heeds the boy as little as he had heeded the old woman. What does he care for the boy, who seems wholly absorbed in his musical efforts?

He entered the store of the merchant, who dealt in all kinds of provisions; in olives, meats, chocolate, sugar, and eggs. Mohammed purchases some of all these articles, and it amuses and astonishes the merchant to see the young officer become, of a sudden, his own housewife. But he does not venture to say so, or ask any questions; Mohammed’s grave looks and bearing forbid any attempt at raillery.

A servant is ordered to put the things in a basket, and take them to his house.

As he walks out of the store again, he hears the boy’s shrill whistling in the distance. He pays no attention to this, and walks on quietly. The whistling suddenly ceases, and the boy, who had posted himself in the vicinity, so that Mohammed could not see him on coming out, now runs after him, stepping close to the basket in passing; he casts a quick, searching glance at the articles it contained, as if taking note in expectation of being called on to give an account of its contents.

The old woman is still sitting opposite Mohammed’s house, reposing there, apparently, after smoking her pipe. Her head is thrown back, resting against the door, and her eyes are closed; she seems to be sleeping.

CHAPTER X

THE DEPARTURE.

A new and great event occupied the attention of the inhabitants of Cavalla and Praousta on the following morning. A large and magnificent ship had entered the harbor during the night, a vessel of the Turkish navy: its dark-red flag, with the grand-sultan’s crown on its dark field, showed it to be such. The sailors were attired in glittering uniforms, and on the deck stood a tent embroidered with gold, beneath it a luxurious couch of swelling cushions. The ship was still handsomer than the one on which Cousrouf Pacha had arrived three years before. But then he had come to Cavalla as an exile, and had not been sent away with the same ceremony with which they were now prepared to welcome him back. For it is already known, and the intelligence has rapidly spread, that this ship has come from Stamboul to convey Cousrouf Pacha back to his home; and, therefore, was it so festively decorated with flags, and carpets, and garlands of flowers.

His friend the grand-admiral, Hussein Pacha, has been working in his interest, and the sunlight of his master’s favor is once more shed upon the head of the exile.

With great dignity Cousrouf received the captain, who bowed profoundly before him, while those who accompanied him threw themselves upon the ground, touching the earth with their foreheads. He received the imperial missive with perfect composure, opened it, and inclined his head with a gracious expression of countenance, as though he were dispensing and not receiving a favor.

“‘Tis well, captain–I am ready! Our most gracious emperor and master has written to me, and as he WISHES”–(he emphasized this word; the sultan only expresses a wish, he does not command Cousrouf Pacha)–“as he wishes me to return to Stamboul with all convenient speed, keep every thing in readiness to sail.”

“Will your excellency sail to-day?” asked the captain.

Cousrouf Pacha slowly shook his head. “I do not know. It may be to- day, and yet it may not be possible to depart for a week. It depends on circumstances which I cannot entirely control; but keep everything in readiness, as I may, should matters take a favorable turn, be enabled to depart at any hour.”