Mohammed Ali and His House by Luise von Muhlbach (page 7)

“Pardon me, highness,” said Mohammed Ali, with a slight smile, for he well understood the secret meaning of this question, “pardon me, highness, I am this Mohammed, and yet another. The first was a bold, insolent lad, who dared to defy your authority and refused to bow his head in humility before your highness. He who now stands before you, however, is your devoted servant, who brings you greetings from his friend Osman. He is deeply touched by your graciousness, and, hoping for a continuance of your favor, he undertook to do your bidding. But alas! the will of man is often frustrated by bodily weakness. It was thus with my friend Osman. The first day of the conflict at Aboukir prostrated him so completely that he was compelled to return home to Cavalla, and the capitan graciously granted his request and placed me in his position. Yet I lay my new dignity at your feet; all that I am I wish to receive at your hands.”

Cousrouf had regarded him fixedly while he spoke, and had listened attentively to his words and voice. He was satisfied with him. “Yes, Mohammed, you are right,” said Cousrouf; “there is nothing of the fierce boy of those days in you now. Your voice is flattering, and your words well chosen and devoted, and Cousrouf will attach you to himself through gratitude. He will cherish you, and make of you a devoted servant. You say, you lay your dignity of bim bashi at my feet?”

“Yes, highness, I lay all at your feet; and all that I am I wish to receive at your hands.”

“Well, then, if your destiny rests with me, I must promote the bim bashi to a higher dignity. From this moment the bim bashi is the sarechsme, the general of the Albanian troops. You are their countryman, and you shall be their leader.”

“O highness, how great is your generosity!” exclaims Mohammed, his countenance beaming with joy.

Cousrouf had observed him closely, and the young man’s delight showed him that he had acquired in Mohammed a true and devoted friend, and he will have great need of such friends in the impending struggles to uphold his power, which the course pursued by his friend the capitan pacha will have made inevitable. The bloody massacre at Aboukir, which the capitan claims as a friendly service rendered him, has, he well knows, made him many passionate and irreconcilable enemies. Yes, he needs true friends, and Mohammed shall be chained to his service through gratitude.

Mohammed expresses his gratitude and devotion in such eloquent terms that Cousrouf’s heart is touched, and he feels impelled to address some kindly words to the new sarechsme. He dismisses Hassan Aga with friendly greetings to the capitan pacha, and motioned to the sarechsme to remain. Cousrouf walks thoughtfully to and fro in the room for a time, his gold-embroidered caftan trailing on the carpet behind him, and the crescent on his turban glittering in the sunlight. Mohammed raises his eyes for an instant, and sees the figure sweep past him like a brilliant meteor. Quickly he casts down his eyes again, that his soul’s inmost thoughts may not be betrayed, and least of all to the viceroy. No one but Allah hears the oath that now resounds in his soul, as he stands in an humble attitude at the door, waiting to be addressed. “I have sworn vengeance, and I will keep my oath. Vengeance for Masa; vengeance for the torments I have endured. My head is now bowed in humility before you, yet I swear to repay you for the evil you have done me; not by killing you, but by torturing your soul. We are alone, without witnesses; it were an easy thing to slay you. The door stands open, and I could flee before the deed could be known. But death is no revenge for years of torture. You shall live, and live in agony and pain. Thus will Mohammed Ali be avenged!”

In his heart he swears this oath. His lips do not quiver; no feature of his countenance betrays what is passing within. Cousrouf stands still before him, and lays his hand on Mohammed’s shoulder. “Look at me, Mohammed!”

The latter looks up, and the eyes of both are firmly fixed on each other. The young general divines Cousrouf’s thoughts, but the pacha does not divine Mohammed’s.

“You said that the Mohammed of the days when I resided in Cavalla is dead. Is it true?”

“Yes, highness, it is true. He is dead, or he has at least transformed himself into a better man. Yet, highness, he suffered much before he could accomplish this transformation.”

“That I can readily believe,” says Cousrouf, in low tones. “I have often regretted having caused you this misery. Yet you must have become satisfied yourself, young man, that I could not do otherwise. I acted in accordance with the law.”

“You only acted in accordance with the law,” replies Mohammed, in a low voice. “The law ordains that the faithless runaway be punished, and also he with whom she has fled. The captured slave was killed, and it seems to me it was an act of clemency to permit him who loved her to witness her execution without being able to help her. Yes, an act of great clemency. You might have punished me more severely.”

Again Cousrouf gazes into his countenance searchingly. The tone of his voice is mild and submissive, yet his words bear stings.

“I should think, Mohammed, that death itself were preferable to the punishment of being compelled to witness the execution of the beloved without being able to help her. In the years that have since passed, I have often thought that it was cruel, and wished I had not dealt so harshly with you. Does it suffice that I confess this to you? Will you say this to the other–the dead and transformed–and will it console him?”

“O master, what magnanimity!” exclaims Mohammed.

“You are generous enough to confess that you feel regret at having done justice to that slave?”

“I was passionate, and you had excited my wrath,” replies the pacha, gently inclining his head.

“Not I, highness,” says Mohammed, smiling. “Not I, the sarechsme, but that wild, insolent boy, Mohammed, of whom no trace now remains. He is buried in the sea, at the place where the waves closed over Masa. Yet, if that Mohammed still lived and heard what you say, he would bow down in the dust before the great man who condescends to confess that he regrets what he has done. However, should I see that Mohammed, I will tell him of this never-to-be-forgotten magnanimity.”

“I will give you a souvenir of this hour,” says Cousrouf, gently. “I am so happy myself to-day that I desire to see the happy only about me. You are now a general. I should like to see you worthily fitted out for your new dignity. Have you a steed suitable to your rank?”

“I am poor, highness, and have nothing but the salary which your highness will bestow on me.”

“Above all, you must have a good horse. I have received from the grand-sultan, in Stamboul, in honor of my entrance into Cairo, four beautiful horses. I make you a present of one of them. Go down to the stables; they shall be shown you, and you shall select the one that pleases you best. Be still! no word of thanks! Show your gratitude by serving me faithfully. Are you already provided with a dwelling?”

“No, highness. The bim bashi had but just arrived with Hassan Aga from Alexandria, and has as yet had no time to look after a dwelling.”

“A house shall be prepared for you,” said the pacha; “I will see to this myself. Remain in my palace to-day; tomorrow you shall have a house of your own. Now go and select the best of the horses. I hope you are a connoisseur, and will easily pick out the best one; it shall be delivered to you completely equipped.” He calls a slave who stood waiting without, and commands him to conduct the sarechsme to the courtyard, and order the horses to be led before him.

Mohammed, his head bowed down in profound reverence, withdraws to the door, walking backward. Cousrouf follows him with his eyes until the door has closed behind him, and then a smile glides over his countenance.

“This man is won over to my interests. He is right; he is transformed, body and soul, and he is mine. And truly such a friend is a valuable possession.”

Mohammed descends with the slave to the court-yard. The latter hastily summons the equerry, and delivers his master’s message. The beautiful horses, with their splendid trappings, are now led before Mohammed. The new sarechsme selects the handsomest and best; he wishes to show the viceroy that he can judge of the beauty and fire of a horse. Mohammed then retires to the rooms set apart for him in a wing of the palace. When left alone, his grave countenance relaxes, and a triumphant smile plays about his lips.

“The work is begun,” murmurs he to himself. “The viceroy has himself called his enemy to his side. He thinks, with his favor and flattery, to make me forget what I have endured. He shall learn that Mohammed Ali never forgives. You are lost, Cousrouf, for you slumber, while I watch and will take advantage of your slumber. Beware, Cousrouf, beware! I will not be your murderer, you shall live, but I will humble you; you shall sink down in the dust before me! Let that be the revenge for Masa, my white dove, and for myself!”

CHAPTER IX

SITTA NEFYSSEH.

She was reposing in her garden-kiosk. She had ordered her female slaves to place themselves in the rear of some rose-bushes in the background, and make sweet harmony with their cymbals and clarinets. She wished to be left alone with her thoughts. She lay reclining at full length on her silver-embroidered silken cushions. The white silk dress, inworked with crimson roses, enfolded her closely, displaying the contour of her graceful form. The sunlight pierced the airy latticework of the kiosk, around which clustered roses and orange-blossoms, and shed a soft light over her charming countenance. The veil, which Sitta Nefysseh only wears when she goes into the streets or meets strangers in her house, is laid aside.

Beautiful is Sitta Nefysseh, more beautiful than a young girl, than the unblown rose, radiant with loveliness and dignity. “Queen of the Roses,” thus is she called by all Cairo.

Who does not know her–who has not heard of her, of the Rose of Cairo, of the wife of the great Mourad Bey, the Mameluke chieftain? Even the Franks bowed humbly before her grace and dignity, and the scha-er sings and relates, on the street-corners, of the French general, Kleber, who loved Mourad’s beautiful wife, and who often, in the stillness of the evening, haunted the vicinity of his palace, awaiting, perhaps, an opportunity to invade the harem in which the Rose of Cairo dwelt. And in his songs he also intimates that the dagger-stroke which lay the general low near the palace, was dealt at the instigation of the jealous bey.

Who does not know Sitta Nefysseh, the benefactress of the poor, the proud heroine who fought at her husband’s side, who shared with Mourad the dangers of war, a heroine in battle, a gentle, modest woman in the harem?

All is still about her. The waters of the fountains near the kiosk murmur gently as they fall in the basins beneath, as if to lull the beautiful woman to rest with their music, and now the soft music from behind the rose-bushes is also wafted over, to the kiosk.

The slaves accompany the instruments with their voices.

What are they singing? What song is this that exults and is yet filled with sadness? whose strains are so passionate, so lamenting, so longing?

Sitta Nefysseh well knows what they are; although the words are inaudible, yet she knows them, knows the sad love-song “of her whom he loved, of him who slew her.” The song is a familiar one. But why does it excite such emotion in her heart, why do her large black eyes fill with tears? She would permit no one to see these tears, she would quickly brush them from her sparkling eyes with her hand, white as the lily, if the eye of any human being could now behold her.

But no one sees her–Sitta Nefysseh is alone.

At least she thinks so. The pair of black eyes that peer out from behind the shrubbery and flowers near the garden-wall, she does not see, and yet these eyes are fixed with such anguish and longing, with such passionate ardor, on the lovely woman who lies there dreamily on her cushions.

Of what is she dreaming? The slaves are singing of love and bliss; the waters murmuring of love and bliss, and, in the heart of the beautiful Sitta Nefysseh, there are also singing, sighing, and murmuring of love and bliss!

People say that Sitta Nefysseh is proud and has a cold heart. Love has never dared to approach her since the death of her husband, Mourad Bey. She is kindly in her manner toward all, yet no one dares suppose she views him with more favor than others. She keeps all men at a distance; they all love her and bow down in reverence and adoration before her, but Sitta Nefysseh remains proud and cold; she loves no one!

This the people say, and, if she heard it, she would nod her beautiful head, would smile and say: “They are right, I love no one. Mourad Bey, my husband and my hero, him I loved! Since he is dead, I am alone and love no one!”

The black eyes are still peering out through the shrubbery and flowers, fixed on her with passionate ardor. She does not see them; but now, as she raises her head as if to rise from her cushions, these eyes quickly disappear, and a tall, manly figure, stooping forward behind the trees and shrubbery, glides noiselessly along to the gate that leads into the inner court-yard. But, before he steps out, young Youssouf stands still, draws a long breath, and seems to summon all his resolution to his aid to resist the charm that carries him away.

“If she knew that I watched her, she would drive me from her, and then Youssouf would die. Alas! she may not dream that I love her, she is proud and unapproachable, and what am I to her? The poor kachef of her deceased husband! She tolerates me as she tolerates the dog that is accustomed to lie on the threshold of her door. Alas, I should die if she knew of Youssouf’s love for her!”

Kachef Youssouf is handsome, and, were it not the noble Sitta Nefysseh, exception would be taken to a woman’s having so handsome a kachef in her service. But Sitta Nefysseh is unapproachable, virtue attends her in all her ways, modesty and dignity are everywhere her companions. No one dares approach her chaste reputation with even a breath of reproach.

Youssouf steps into the inner court-yard; he lays his hand on his brown beard and strokes its curly locks.

“Be a man,” murmur his lips. “Be resolute. Alas! I could endure not being the one if no other dared approach her. But here comes one of them already. He can approach her and speak of love. Woe is me!”

With profound deference, and forcing his features into a smile, Youssouf approached Osman Bey Bardissi, who at this moment came into the court, mounted on his proud, splendidly-equipped steed, and followed by a body of his Mamelukes.

“Is your mistress at home?” asked Bardissi, springing lightly to the ground, and throwing the purple-silk reins to the Mameluke who hurried forward.

“Yes, Sitta Nefysseh is in the park. She is resting in the kiosk, and I will announce to the female slaves that Osman Bey Bardissi wishes to see their mistress.”

“Do so, Kachef Youssouf,” said Bardissi. “But first listen to me. How would you like to be taken into my service, kachef? you are too good for this life of inactivity? If you desire it, I will ask Sitta Nefysseh to give you your freedom?”

“Give me my freedom? I am free!” said Youssouf, regarding Bardissi with proud composure. “I was a Mameluke with Mourad, as you know. My noble master had purchased me; he loved me, and often told me I should remain with him while I lived. He made me kachef, first kachef of his house. I swore eternal fidelity to him and to his house, and I will keep my oath.”

“I do not doubt it,” replied Bardissi, in kindly tones; “I only mean, Youssouf, that you are too young not to wish to wield the sword and join us in the conflict that is soon to be renewed. Poor Youssouf, you will then be shut out from our ranks, for Sitta Nefysseh no longer sends her Mamelukes with us to battle; she now uses them for her service only, and I am certain she would be well pleased if her kachef Youssouf, as it becomes him, draws his sword to win laurels in the field. You can make something great of yourself. Look at me, Youssouf: I was what you are; like you a Mameluke, also like you a kachef, and could let my beard grow, and now I am a Mameluke bey, and three thousand servants follow me to battle. You might accomplish as much, Youssouf.”

“I am satisfied with what I am, and ask for nothing more,” replied the kachef. “I swore to Mourad Bey to serve him and his house my life long, and I will keep my oath: I therefore entreat you to say nothing to Sitta Nefysseh. She might be displeased.”

“I will not,” replied Bardissi; “remain true to your word. And now go and inquire whether your mistress can see me.”

Youssouf hastened to where the slaves were still singing their melancholy song, and sent one of them down into the park to inform her that the Mameluke bey, Osman Bardissi, had come, and desired to see her.

The slave advanced timidly to the entrance of the kiosk, and announced the visitor to Sitta Nefysseh, who, awakening from a dream she had dreamed with open eyes, gently inclined her head.

“He is welcome. Conduct him to me.–Come nearer, ye slaves, and seat yourselves behind that clump of rose-bushes. You can sing and play while I am receiving my visitor, for Osman Bey loves music. Do me honor, my slaves, and sing the love-songs of Djumeil and his Lubna.”

Bardissi cannot see these musicians as he advances toward the kiosk, conducted by the slave; he only hears and rejoices in their song.

Sitta Nefysseh has risen from her cushions, but she has not covered her face with the veil which, fastened to her hair with golden clasps, falls back over her shoulders. The widow, and above all the widow of the bey, is allowed to remain unveiled in the presence of a friend. The great prophet never commanded that the wives of Moslems should appear veiled in their own houses; the jealousy of their husbands had gradually imposed this burden upon them. Conscious of her own worth and dignity, Sitta Nefysseh feels herself free to disregard such requirement. She turns her lovely countenance with a gentle smile toward the advancing bey, and Bardissi feels the glance of her large eyes, though he does not see them. He feels it, and moves not, a slight tremor possessing itself of his entire being.

What! Bardissi trembles!–the hero, who amid the din of battle joyously confronts the death-dealing cannon, who never trembles, though face to face with a whole forest of spears–Bardissi trembles and turns pale!

Sitta Nefysseh sees it, and her smile brightens. “Why do you hesitate to approach, Osman? and what have you to say to me, friend of my husband, Mourad Bey?”

She wishes to remind him that he had been Mourad’s friend. He well understands her meaning, and, stepping quickly forward, falls on his knee before her, and reverently kisses the hem of her dress.

“I paused, O Sitta, Rose of Cairo–I paused because I heard the song of the slaves–they are singing my favorite song.”

“The song is known to you?” said Sitta Nefysseh.

“It is. Do you know, Sitta, when I first heard this song?”

“I do not,” replied she, shaking her head gently.

“May I tell you?”

“Do so; seat yourself on the marble stool standing at the entrance of the kiosk, and tell me.”

She falls back upon her cushion with the easy grace of a swan. But Bardissi does not take the seat so graciously assigned him. He steps forward and remains standing in front of Sitta Nefysseh, gazing down upon her with reverence and delight, as though his glances were a consecrated gold-inworked veil in which he wishes to envelop her lovely form, and draw her to his heart.

“Well, Osman Bey, when did you first hear this song?”

He remains silent for a moment; the bees are humming in the air, the fountains flashing, and from the distance the words of the song the slaves are singing are wafted over by the gentle breeze:

“Thee alone on earth have I loved. My longing heart is drawn to thee. And, though this earth were heaven, and it contained my Lubna not, I’d wander rather through the gates of hell if I but knew my Lubna there!”

“If I but knew my Lubna there!” repeated Osman Bey, in low, tremulous tones.–“You wish to know when I first heard this song? I will tell you. It was on the evening of a bloody day of battle; I had ridden at the side of our great chieftain, Mourad Bey. He called me his friend, his–“

“His favorite,” said Sitta Nefysseh, interrupting him. “He said he loved you like a brother, and would confide to you without fear or hesitation all he loved best–his wife, his child–knowing that they would be guarded and held sacred as though they were in the holiest niche of the mosque. Yes, my noble husband loved you. And now, speak on. You had gone out to battle.”

“Yes, it was a bloody day. The angel of death hovered over us, and the swords of the enemy swept heavily upon our ranks. A sabre-stroke dealt by Bashi Seref fell upon the sword-arm of my noble friend, striking him down and disabling him. The Turk was preparing to deal a second blow, when I struck him to the earth with my ataghan. I then bore my friend from the conflict to his tent, and there you were, Sitta Nefysseh. You received the hero from my arms, and for the first time I saw your unveiled countenance. I then returned to the battle, and took Mourad’s place at the head of his Mamelukes. Whether it was anger over the wounding of my friend, or the bliss caused by the lovely image I had beheld, I know not, but my arm was strong and mighty, and love and heroism exulted in my heart. I called out to the Mamelukes, `We must and will die or conquer!’ But, being still too young to die, and loving life too well, we conquered. The enemy was driven from the field, and ours was the victory. We encamped on the field after the bloody conflict; and then, having won the victory, I felt privileged, when evening came, to repair to Mourad’s tent to report our success.

“No one was there to announce me; I drew back the curtain and entered the first room. No one was there, and the curtain of the inner apartment of the tent was half drawn aside. I went no farther, knowing that the wounded Mourad lay there on his cushions, and that Sitta Nefysseh was with him. I knew this because I heard her singing; she sang her beloved to sleep as a mother lulls her babe to rest, or as the houris sing in paradise, when they in wondrous melody announce the joys of heaven to dying mortals.

“I remained standing in the tent and listened to your song, Sitta Nefysseh. You sang to your husband of love and happiness–sang in sweet words what Djumeil says to his Lubna: `Nature breathes love. The bird in the air sings of love; the spring which bubbles at your feet murmurs of love; the rose that blossoms in the garden sheds love’s fragrance–all is love and bliss. Woe to them who know nothing more of love, woe to them who bear a cold heart in their bosom.’ This you sang, Sitta Nefysseh, and I stood listening, entranced. What I then felt was so all-absorbing, so divinely beautiful, that I was unwilling to have the harmony of that sweet moment broken in upon by the voice of man. I silently withdrew; your song informed me that Mourad slept and was in heavenly bliss. I noiselessly left the tent, and stepped out into the night. The moon shed its soft light around, enveloping the white tents scattered over the plain and the terrors of the day in a heavenly, silver veil.

“I did not return to my tent that night, however. Where was I? If you should ask, Sitta Nefysseh, I could not tell you. But this much I can tell you, I was in paradise! I thought of this when I just now heard your slaves sing the song I then heard for the first time, and that has resounded in my heart ever since. I covered it with thick veils, and laid my hand on it to silence it: and I found it possible to do so while my noble friend Mourad still lived. I forced my heart to bury in its depths its wishes and longings. I have been silent, Sitta Nefysseh, not only while Mourad lived, but I have also honored the period allotted to a widow’s mourning. But this is now passed; pain has vanisbed from your heart, I trust. Your heavenly countenance is again radiant with youthful loveliness, and no longer shows the traces of sorrow.”

“It is true, Osman Bey,” said Nefysseh, with a low sigh; “time heals all wounds, and sorrow no longer darkens my soul; yet know that Mourad Bey still lives in my heart, and it is because he still lives for me that I am able to bear this life and this separation.”

“I well know, O Sitta, your fidelity, your noble sentiments,” replied Bardissi; “it is this knowledge that makes me adore and reverence you; and were it not strange if I, too, could ever forget the man who loved you so passionately, and whose memory you still love? But such love, Sitta, excites no jealousy, and even he who loves passionately respects such love. Listen to me, Sitta Nefysseh; hear why I have come to you; I can endure it no longer; the seal must at last fall from his lips, and Bardissi must give utterance to what he feels, to that which glows in his heart, and can no longer be repressed. Yes, Sitta Nefysseh, you must at last hear that I am dying for love, and that if you refuse to hear me, I must–“

“Silence!” exclaimed Nefysseh, interrupting him, with queenly composure, as she rose from her seat–“silence, Osman Bey! do you not know that my husband Mourad lived here in this garden, in this place? How could his wife, Sitta Nefysseh, have received you unveiled if her husband had not stood by her side? Do you not see him, Osman Bey? Do you not see his eyes fixed on you with an angry expression, and do not his lips ask his friend how he can betray friendship? What was your promise to Mourad? To honor and guard his wife while you lived.”

“And I will, Sitta Nefysseh. I do guard and honor her, but I also love her as ardently as ever man loved woman!” exclaimed Bardissi, in passionate tones. “Does not man honor woman most when he loves her best? How can I better prove my adoration and reverence than by laying my life at your feet, and saying, in tones of humble entreaty, `Sitta Nefysseh, be my wife, follow me to my house, and be mistress of myself and of all that I am?”

“Do not say this, Osman Bey, I entreat you, do not speak thus to me!” cried Sitta Nefysseh in a loud voice. “It would give pain to me to have to answer you, and it will be better not to have heard your words. I call you friend, and I wish you to remain my friend all your life long. Yet, hear me; my heart is open to no other love, and my hands must remain unfettered. Mourad’s widow remains true to herself, and to him who dwells in her heart, and is ever at her side. Let us forget, Osman, what you, carried away by your friendship, have said. You thought Mourad’s wife felt herself alone in the world, and, out of friendship for your deceased friend, you desired to offer her the support of your heroic hand. If ever I should need assistance, and a friend, rest assured, Osman, I shall call on you. But now, step back, one of my slaves is approaching with a message. Turn your countenance away, Osman, it looks so gloomy and passionate; I would not have her notice your love.”

He turns aside, and seems to be listening to the distant singing and playing of the slaves; he, however, hears the slave, who now enters the kiosk, announce that L’Elfi Bey desires to see her mistress. He hears it, and shudders. L’Elfi Bey, his friend and companion-in- arms; what brings him here to Mourad’s widow?

Sitta Nefysseh sends word that the bey is welcome, and the slave departs on her errand.

“L’Elfi Bey is permitted to come to you!”

“And why not?” asked she proudly. “Was not Osman Bey permitted to visit me, and was not L’Elfi also my husband’s friend?”

“It is true; forgive my thoughtlessness,” replied Osman in low and almost angry tones. “Permit me to take my leave, Sitta Nefysseh. I do not wish to disturb your interview with the great L’Elfi Bey.”

“On the contrary, you will please remain,” replied she, quietly, gracefully drawing her fragrant veil over her head, and covering her face.

Bardissi’s heroic countenance became radiant with delight. She had received him unveiled, and now that L’Elfi comes she veils herself. Allah be praised, that is a favorable omen; a ray of light penetrating the gloom that enveloped his soul; he has seen her unveiled, and —

“L’Elfi Bey comes,” said Sitta Nefysseh, rising to welcome her new visitor.

CHAPTER X

L’ELFI BEY.

Haughtily erect, the bey advanced, followed by four Mamelukes in rich, gold-embroidered garments, who bore a casket covered with a purple cloth, whose golden fringe hung down to the ground.

As L’Elfi came near, his countenance assumed a deferential appearance, and, his arms crossed on his breast, he stepped forward and bowed profoundly before Sitta Nefysseh.

“Queen of my heart, sun of my eyes! Allow me to do homage, and to lay my present at your feet as a token of my devotion!”

He beckoned to the Mamelukes to come forward and lay the casket down before her.

“I rejoice that you have come, L’Elfi,” said Nefysseh, quietly. “I rejoice, because it proves that your wounds are now healed, as are those of Osman Bey. Yet, I see no necessity for such outward proofs of your friendship.”

“O Sitta Nefysseh!” cried L’Elfi. “One brings his offerings to the good spirits, and, if I were a heathen, I would say, ‘I lay on the altar of my goddess the tokens of my adoration, of my love!'”

“You are, however, no heathen, but a Moslem; and what becomes a heathen does not become the brave Mameluke L’Elfi Bey!”

“What I am elsewhere is forgotten,” cried L’Elfi; “here I am nothing but your slave, nothing but a man who would gladly pluck the stars from heaven to lay them at your feet! Therefore allow me to do homage to my queen as my heart prompts!”

He drew the cloth from the casket, and golden dishes, goblets, and vases, glittered in the sunshine; and these vessels contained jewelry of varied design, set with precious stones that would have delighted the eyes of many.

Sitta Nefysseh regarded all this magnificence with an air of indifference.

“Accept the offering my adoration lays at your feet!” entreated L’Elfi. “You know I was with the British general in England, and, while there, I thought of you, and, before the ship left London, it was for days my sole occupation and endeavor to select beautiful things for you from among the articles displayed in the magnificent stores. I could not bring them with me, but they were sent after me, and have this day arrived. Pray accept them at the hands of your slave!”

“It seems to me that no one is privileged to offer Mourad Bey’s widow presents of such value,” said she, almost severely. “Yet,” she continued in milder tones, “I will not humiliate him who was my husband’s friend and companion. I will accept your gifts; they shall be placed in the saloon, and all the world shall see how L’Elfi Bey seeks to honor the widow of his former chieftain and friend. Thus will I accept your gifts, and give you thanks for them!–Come, Osman Bardissi!” she continued in louder tones, beckoning to the bey, who stood without in the shade of an oleander-tree–“come and see the magnificent presents which L’Elfi Bey has brought me from England!”

L’Elfi’s countenance darkened, and he recoiled a step almost in anger. “What! Osman Bey is here?”

“And why not? He has recovered from the wounds received at Aboukir. Does it not become him to pay his respects to me? He has this privilege in common with yourself.”

“True, my queen; pray forgive me for daring to find fault with your pleasure.–I greet you, Osman Bey Bardissi. I am glad to see you here! And now, I pray you, let me also see the gifts which you have brought the Rose of Cairo in token of your reverence and devotion. What becomes you, becomes me also; and, as Sitta Nefysseh has allowed you to see what I have brought, she will not refuse to permit me to see the offering of your devotion.”

“You shall see it, L’Elfi Bey,” said Osman, in a somewhat derisive tone. He stepped to the lattice-work of the kiosk, and, plucking the most beautiful crimson rose he could see, knelt down before Sitta Nefysseh and laid it at her feet. “This, Sitta, is my gift. I lay at your feet, the most beautiful of your sisters, your image!”

She smiled. “I thank you, Osman Bey, and gladly accept your offering, for Allah has created it.”

He handed her the rose. She took it, held it to her face, and inhaled its fragrance. She then gracefully fell back on her cushion.

“Arise, Bardissi!” said she. “I have accepted the gifts of both of you; and, now that you are both the same in sentiment, but one thing is wanting.”

“And what is this one thing still wanting?”

“Grasp each other’s hands,” said she, smiling. “I know that you have long been at enmity with each other; discord prevails in the land of my great beys. Let hatred now be set aside. You are both mighty and renowned, but your power will be much greater if you join hands. Let your followers see that you stand united against the common enemy. Oh, how can the fatherland be saved when its defenders are at enmity with each other! The enemy has grown stronger. You know that new troops have arrived here from Turkey, and a man is at their head, of whom I will announce to you that he is dangerous. Therefore grasp hands, and let me see that you are friends!”

“Then let it be so,” said Bardissi, after a pause. “See, Sitta Nefysseh, how great your power over me.–Here, L’Elfi, my hand! Let us unitedly face the enemy!”

L’Elfi slowly and hesitatingly laid his band in that of Osman Bey. “I accept your hand, Osman, in token of our resolve to confront the enemy together. But, before I declare myself your friend, I must first know whether you are my rival or not.”

Osman Bey quickly withdrew his hand. “A rival, L’Elfi! and with whom do you suppose me to be your rival?”

“With you, O Sitta Nefysseh!” said L’Elfi, falling on his knee before her, “With you, whom I adore as one adores the sun and the stars. For your love, I can tolerate no rival!–And now I beg you to withdraw, Osman Bey; I have that to say to Sitta Nefysseh which no other should hear.”

Osman regarded him fiercely. “I should like to know if L’Elfi is privileged to advise or command Osman Bey Bardissi here, where it devolves upon Sitta Nefysseh alone to determine who shall go, and who remain.”

“Then decide, O Sitta!” said L’Elfi.

“You shall both go; neither shall remain,” replied she, sadly. “I see that you are still enemies. Oh, I tell you, you will reap a bitter harvest from this bitter seed. The struggle, in which you should present to the enemy a united front, already begins, and you are still at enmity. Therefore, I say to you, leave me, and return no more; while hatred exists between you, you shall never more come into my presence!”

“Forgiveness, forgiveness! Our hatred shall be forgotten!” exclaimed both, falling upon their knees before her.

“My only entreaty is this,” cried L’Elfi. “Allow me a brief quarter of an hour. Was not Osman Bey honored with an audience alone, and would it not become you to show me the same favor?”

“He was the first who came,” replied she, quickly, “and, therefore, was I alone with him. Had you accompanied him, you would have heard what he had to say, just as he shall hear what you have to say.”

“Then let it be so; he shall hear!” exclaimed L’Elfi, springing to his feet. He first turned haughtily to Osman Bey, and then bowed profoundly before Sitta Nefysseh. “Let the whole world hear what L’Elfi has to say to the widow of his friend. He comes here to lay all he possesses at your feet. He desires to consecrate to you his life and heart’s blood, and entreats the loveliest and noblest of women to hear his prayers. L’Elfi is free! No wife has ever stood at his side; he has no harem, as many others have. He has never, like others, reclined on soft cushions gazing at the dancing of the voluptuous almehs–has loved naught but his sword and ataghan; but his heart is now inclined in love and humility toward you, the only woman it owns as its mistress; and I now entreat you, O Sitta Nefysseh, queen of my heart, become also queen of my house and harem.”

“As he entreats, so do I entreat also!” cried Osman Bey, in angry tones, thrusting L’Elfi aside, and falling on his knee before her. “Be mine, Nefysseh! True, I have loved others, and have also looked with pleasure at the dancing of the female slaves in the harem, yet I have hitherto adored no woman. Military glory, my adoration heretofore, grows pale when Sitta Nefysseh appears, and all else that I have loved and hoped for is as nothing in her presence. For your sake, I will sacrifice not only life, but renown. Command, and I will be your slave; at your feet will I lay my sword and dagger. With my head bowed down, and my beard shorn, will I follow you into the desert, blessing each day and hour in which I am permitted to look upon my queen. Now, O Sitta Nefysseh, you know what Osman Bey Bardissi feels, and that he can boast of a greater love than L’Elfi; he even offers to sacrifice renown for you! Decide whom you will bless, Nefysseh! One thing more I will say to you: if you select the hand of my rival, and command me to love him, I cannot promise to do so! Yet this I swear, that I will be contented with your choice, and that I will never seek to take or shorten his life. Consider, Nefysseh, that this is the most enormous sacrifice that Osman can make for the woman he loves; he promises not to kill him upon whom she bestows her hand.”

“And you, L’Elfi,” said Nefysseh, in a soft voice, “will you swear the same?”

“I will,” cried L’Elfi. “I swear that I will do as Osman Bey has said–I will still detest my enemy, but I will not kill him whom you love. Now speak, Sitta Nefysseh, and decide between us!”

For a moment all were silent. The two beys awaited her decision with wildly-throbbing hearts. She was still silent, her large eyes turned toward heaven with a wondrous expression.

At this moment the song of the slaves, accompanied by the music of the clarinet and violin, again resounded from the midst of the oleander and rose-bushes. The voice of a slave arose, singing of a slave who loves his mistress, and dies because of her indifference. He has borne this bitter sorrow for long days and nights, and dares not tell the tale of his love. He bore it, and was blessed in being permitted to see her, but her heart was cold and knew no love for him. But greater unhappiness was in store for him. One day there came a proud and mighty bey, and succeeded in winning the love of his adored; and Fate willed it that the poor, tortured slave should see her eyes fixed on the bey in a loving gaze, and he also saw him fall on his knees before his mistress and take her hand and carry it to his lips. Then the poor slave’s heart broke, and, falling to the earth, he died, sighing, “I love thee!”

All three had listened to the sad air and words of the song. Sitta Nefysseh now turned to the beys.

“This song has no bearing upon you. You will never see Sitta Nefysseh give her love and hand to another! You who were my husband’s friends I will ever consider my friends! But hear me: Mourad’s widow will never marry again! As I knelt at the death-bed of my husband, bathing his wound with my tears, I swore that I would ever remain true to him I had loved so ardently my life long, and never become the wife of another. And now I ask, noble beys, can you desire Mourad’s widow to perjure herself? I know you will say the heart knows no oaths, love cannot be restrained. That may be, but do not speak of it to me. You have come to ask with which of you I will share the remainder of my days; I ask you, decide yourselves, can I break this solemn oath?”

The two beys bow their heads still deeper, and sigh profoundly.

“Decide!” repeated Sitta Nefysseh.

They raise their heads and gaze at her sadly. “No, Sitta Nefysseh! You may not break the oath to your husband, sworn in the name of Allah and the prophet! No, you can never bestow your hand upon another. Alas, that this is so! alas, that we must submit!”

“No, it is well that it is so!” said Sitta Nefysseh, with a soft smile. “Mourad’s widow has the right to be the friend of both of you; she may hold out her hands to you and say: `Be my friends, my brothers, and, as you love me, also love one another.’ For the second time I entreat you, grasp each other’s hands and be friends. For both let there be one common enemy–the enemy who confronts you on the field of battle–the Turk! Grasp hands in love and friendship!”

The two beys grasped each other’s hands firmly.

“Let it be as our friend and sister wishes; she shall see us united. Let there be for us but one common enemy–the Turk!”

“An enemy who grows stronger each day!” said Sitta Nefysseh. “We thought to have peace when the Franks should have left, but unfortunately it is not so. The Turks are resolved to subjugate us. I know they will not rest until they have overthrown and destroyed the haughty Mameluke beys! They are continually bringing new troops, into the country, and their leader is a dangerous enemy, believe me!”

“For the second time you speak of this `dangerous enemy.’ Tell us, Sitta, who is he?”

“He it is,” said she, in earnest tones, “who brought the letter to the capitan pacha at Aboukir; he it is who confronted you in that bloody struggle, and whose courage, boldness, and determination, captured the stronghold Rosetta. I have read the countenance of the sarechsme, and in his eye I have recognized the lion and the fox combined. Before him, I for the first time in my life experienced fear. Beware of him; if possible, make a friend of him, for the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, would prove a mighty ally!”

“I know him well,” said Osman Bey, smiling. “I met him when a boy, and even then we confronted each other as enemies. A short time since I met him again, and he then protected me from the fury of his soldiers; and I am grateful. I will endeavor, Sitta, to win him over to our interests, as you suggest. If we succeed, and when this formidable enemy shall have become our ally, the Mameluke beys will have great cause to congratulate themselves, and thank Sitta Nefysseh again.”

“The only proof of your gratitude that I ask is, that you stand united. Thank me by pronouncing my name when you stand side by side on the battle-field, from which you have driven the enemy!”

“We will do so. Your name will I pronounce when I go out to battle! And your name will my lips utter, O Sitta Nefysseh, when I sink down upon the bloody field!” Thus spoke both, and then bowed profoundly before Mourad’s widow.

“And now you may go,” said she, gently. “Walk arm-in-arm through the Muskj Street, that all the world may see that the two greatest Mameluke beys are friends. If these are united, then will the struggle soon terminate. Now go and show the people that you are friends.”

“And if they express surprise at our friendship,” cried Osman Bey, his eyes sparkling, “we will say Mourad’s widow wills it so, and we humbly and cheerfully obey.”

“Yes, we will say this,” cried l’Elfi, joyously. “Mourad’s widow commanded us to be united, and therefore are we united.–And now let us go, Osman Bey; it is, however, not necessary that we walk arm-in- arm here; only when we have passed the threshold of this house shall Osman give me his arm, that the world may see your influence over us.”

Osman Bey walked rapidly down the avenue. L’Elfi followed him slowly and hesitatingly, looking back twice at Sitta Nefysseh. The latter waved her hand deprecatingly, and he then rapidly followed Osman.

Sitta Nefysseh sighed profoundly as the two disappeared through the gateway, falling back upon her cushions as if overwhelmed with grief. She heard nothing of the music, that still resounded from the rose-bushes; she heard only the secret and sacred voices which lamented in her soul, and she shuddered at what they said.

“No, no, it may not be,” said she to herself. “I saved myself from their importunity by the falsehood of the oath. I never swore to my husband that Mourad’s wife would become the wife of no other. It was not because an oath bound her that she rejected them; but because her heart so willed it. Not without love is Mourad’s widow; but whom she loves no one must know, no one must even suspect.”

She arose and threw back her veil to wipe away the tears that burned her eyes. Suddenly she trembled, a deep blush overspreading her countenance. She saw the young kachef Youssouf coming up the walk. She saw his proud, erect figure, his countenance full of youthful freshness and nobility. She drew heir veil more closely about her; but the veil cannot hide the brightness of her eyes. They fairly sparkled as he advanced. He approached slowly. She seemed not to see him, leaned back on her cushions, raised the crimson rose to her face, and inhaled its fragrance. Kachef Youssouf, his arms folded on his breast, stood at the entrance of the kiosk.

“Sitta Nefysseh, mistress, you command to have your carriage ready, as you wished to drive out at this hour. It is ready, and I humbly ask if it is your pleasure to go now, and if I may have the honor of accompanying your suite, and riding at the side of your carriage?”

Sitta Nefysseh, who was still inhaling the fragrance of the rose, slowly let fall her hand to her side, and the flower fell from her fingers to the ground.

“You are an attentive, punctual servant,” said she. “I thank you; I will drive out at once with two of my women; you may ride beside my carriage.”

Sitta Nefysseh arose and left the kiosk. She passed close by him, and her white veil lightly touched Youssouf’s shoulder. He stood as if touched by a magic wand and fixed to the spot. He could not follow his mistress, who walked proudly toward the place where the women awaited her. He followed her with his eyes, however, and saw how her long flowing garment adjusted itself to her lovely figure, and how her white veil fluttered about her noble head, enveloping it as with a delicate white cloud.

“Would that I were the wind that kisses your cheek!” murmured he, lost in contemplation of his idol. “Would I were the sand your foot blesses with its touch! To die near you, beholding you in death, were heavenly bliss.”

Sitta Nefysseh had disappeared behind the clump of bushes. Kachef Youssouf still stood before the kiosk. He listened. The music had ceased. He knew that his mistress was returning with her women to the house. He hastily glanced around the garden, fastening his large, black eyes, on every bush, as if expecting to find an enemy concealed there. No one is to be seen. Only Heaven and the bees in the air see Youssouf as he rushes into the kiosk, picks up the rose, presses it passionately to his lips, and then conceals it in his bosom.

CHAPTER XI

THE COUNCIL OF WAR.

From the day of their first meeting, when Cousrouf Pacha appointed Mohammed Ali sarechsme, the new general had proved his bravery and his shrewdness in many a skirmish and battle with the Mamelukes. He had already captured from them two strongholds, and had returned victorious from every battle with them. Cousrouf praised his fortune at having such a general at his side. Mohammed Ali showed himself so zealous and devoted in his service that the viceroy listened to his advice only, and called him his favorite and confidant.

“Truly, I am a happy man,” said Cousrouf to himself. “I am the ruler of a great kingdom. I have friends at my side in whom I can confide, and who will assist me in all my plans, executing all I determine. Who knows but that a great future still awaits me, and that the crown which now hangs suspended over my head may not one day adorn it in reality? Mohammed shall aid me. He is the bravest of the brave, and the wisest of the wise.”

He walked to and fro in his room as he said this to himself, his countenance radiant with smiles.

“I will soon have my wives brought to me, and my daughters also. Who knows, perhaps it were well to chain the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, to my side with still closer bonds? Who knows? Sometimes a strange presentiment comes over me when I look at him. Mohammed’s eyes sometimes glitter so strangely and angrily, but he is conscious of it at once, and then becomes more gentle and devoted than ever. There are times when I distrust him. It were perhaps well to fasten him to my side so firmly that he cannot free himself. Yes, I had best give him one of my daughters in marriage. He must be submissive and devoted to his father-in-law at all times,” said he, in low tones, “Sometimes I think his smooth countenance conceals a gloomy soul, and that Mohammed Ali has not yet forgotten the evil done the young lad in Cavalla. But these are mere fancies. He has proved on every occasion that he no longer thinks of it. I will have him called and study his countenance while speaking with him.”

He sent one of his slaves to request the sarechsme to come to him. After a few minutes Mohammed entered. He bowed profoundly before Cousrouf, and seemed delighted when invited to seat himself beside the pacha on the divan, and smoke the chibouque with him.

“Tell me, Mohammed, how old are you?” asked Cousrouf, after a pause, blowing clouds of smoke from his lips, and seeming to regard the general with kindly composure. “How old are you?”

“I hardly know, highness,” replied Mohammed, smiling. “But let me count. I believe I was fifteen when, at Cavalla, I first had the happiness of meeting you, my distinguished master.”

“Let us proceed with the calculation,” said Cousrouf. “I remained three years in Cavalla. By Allah, they seemed to me to be three centuries! Yes, I remained there three years, and you were therefore eighteen when I left Cavalla?”

“Yes, eighteen years old; and a wild, reckless lad I was, too! Even now I beg your forgiveness for my conduct at that time,” said Mohammed, humbly.

The viceroy bowed a gracious consent.

“Since then twelve years have passed, and you are therefore now thirty.”

“You see, I am an old man! And when I look back at the past it seems to me I have lived an eternity. Yes, highness, I am an old man, and can hardly say that any wishes or aspirations now find a place in my bosom.”

“Are you alone in the world?” asked Cousrouf. “Have you no family?”

A strange fire gleamed for an instant in Mohammed’s eyes, and he compressed his lips firmly. How could he who had inflicted such intolerable anguish upon him, how could he question him as to his heart’s history? Woe to him for so doing! for this, too, shall retribution be visited upon him!

“Yes, highness, I have a family. I have a wife and three sons at home in Cavalla.”

“One wife only!” said the pacha. “Are you contented with one wife?”

“One is often too many,” replied Mohammed. “But this does not apply to my wife. She is the niece of the tschorbadji, and devoted to me. I have no cause to complain of her.”

“Is that all?” asked the pacha, with an air of indifference. “You have nothing further to say of her? Then you do not love her, I suppose?”

“Highness, I believe love was torn from my heart in my youth.”

“Everyone says that until he loves,” replied Cousrouf, composedly blowing clouds of smoke from his mouth. “Yet, in my opinion, one is never too old to love; the heart never grows old. Let me know it if you feel that another love can blossom in your heart, and that you wish, in addition to the wife you have long possessed–and I know that possession gives satiety–another, a young and beautiful wife. Perhaps I can find such a one for you. And I will do so, Mohammed, if you return victorious from the new campaign.”

“A new campaign? and against whom?” was Mohammed’s only response.

“Against whom? Against the insolent Mameluke beys, of course. The time has come to dispose of them finally,” said Cousrouf. “Listen, general. The grand-sultan, weary of these incessant struggles with the rebellious Mameluke beys, is resolved to bring them to a conclusion, and restore peace to the province of Egypt. You, however, have now been here long enough to know that peace in Egypt means death and destruction to the Mameluke beys.”

“Yes, highness, peace in Egypt means death to the Mameluke beys!” replied Mohammed Ali. “Truly, while one of them survives, so long will his proud, ambitious heart prompt him to endeavor to reconquer the rule which he believes is predestined for the Mameluke beys by Allah and the prophet.”

“They shall learn that Allah has doomed them to destruction!” cried Cousrouf, passionately. “All is arranged. To the Franks we are indebted for one thing, and that is for having fought these rebellious beys. Since the French expedition the number of the Mamelukes is diminished by at least one-half. In order to prevent them from recruiting their decimated ranks, the grand-sultan has issued a firman which prohibits further importation into Egypt of Circassian and Georgian slaves.”

“And yet, as I have heard, they resort to other sources to refill their depleted ranks,” said Mohammed, respectfully. “I am told that they recruit their forces with the inhabitants of the desert, with the children of Albania, and the tribe of Achmed Ali.”

“They do, it is true. But the Arabs and Bedouins are poor substitutes for the Georgian and Circassian slaves. You cannot make lions of wild-cats, nor tigers of jackals. Moreover, discord has fallen out among the Mameluke beys themselves, since Mourad Bey fell. He was a great man and a hero! But since his death they have lacked a chieftain who could unite them; Tamboudji Bey was such a one for a brief season, but, as you know, he fell at Aboukir. Three others are now quarrelling over the succession. There is Osman Bey Bardissi; Ibrahim Bey, the old Mameluke chieftain; and finally, L’Elfi Bey, a protege of the English, as Bardissi is of the French. These three are now at daggers’-ends as to who shall be the leader. We must, it seems to me, draw advantage from this quarrel. I know Bardissi and Ibrahim have again applied to France, and have sent ambassadors to the French general, Bonaparte, to solicit their aid against their own masters–against us, the Turks. L’Elfi Bey, however, has sought the intervention of England, and begged for assistance against us in that quarter. They well know that they are too weak to resist us alone. And therefore, it seems to me, we should avail ourselves of this favorable moment when they are awaiting foreign aid. They must be overwhelmed, never to rise again.”

“How wise your words, highness! Overwhelmed they must be for all time, in order that you alone may rule, and that the sultan at Stamboul may look with admiration upon him who has restored to the old rulers of Egypt the power of former days. This great work is reserved for you, Cousrouf Pacha, and your most obedient and devoted servant, Mohammed Ali, will consider himself highly honored, if permitted to aid you in this great cause.”

“I count on you,” replied the pacha, inclining his head graciously. “I know your devotion and zeal in my service, and therefore do I advise with you in all my plans, and speak to you as to my other self. To proceed: The Mameluke beys who applied to England and France also addressed a letter to me at the same time. In this letter they request me to conclude with them an armistice of five months’ duration, in order that they may address themselves to the sultan at Constantinople, to settle, with the assistance of the English and French ambassadors there, the terms of a final treaty of peace. What do you think our answer to the demand of these Mameluke beys should be, Mohammed? Shall we consent to this armistice? Give me your views without reserve. What is your opinion?”

“I think, highness, that it would be folly to grant this armistice. The Mamelukes would avail themselves of this interval to recruit their ranks, and would secretly import slaves. They are cunning, and many resources are open to them. They would make warriors of these slaves in five months, and they would then be the first to recommence the war!”

Cousrouf remained silent for a time. “You are a good general in the field, and a good adviser in the cabinet. I rejoice in your possession!” said he, with his most gracious manner. “Just as you think and say, have I determined, and I have informed these insolent beys that I will not grant them a respite of five months, nor of five weeks; no, not of five days. I, moreover, informed them that if they so ardently desired to have peace, and to enjoy peace, they should submit, and come to Cairo, and live here as Osman Bey Hassan does, who has hitherto also been a Mameluke chieftain. Further, I told them that I was ready to treat with them, and, in order to be rid of this continuous plundering and robbing, I offered to assign them the province of Esneh, in Upper Egypt, where they might indulge their propensities to their hearts’ content. They, however, in their insolence, demanded that I should give them the whole province of Girgeh in addition. This I refused. And now, I think, we have had attempts enough at peace-making. I will draw the sword again, and my armies shall take the field against these insolent rebels. Youssouf Bey, my lieutenant, leads the first column, and the second, my Mohammed Ali, the second you will lead!”

“I thank you, highness, and I promise to lead my soldiers to battle and victory, or to be brought back with the dead!”

“You will lead them to victory, and return a victor. My general, Taher Pacha, will unite his forces with yours and Youssouf Bey’s. Taher Pacha is already on the march from Upper Egypt. And now, tell me, do you think our forces are strong enough to chastise and overthrow the Mameluke beys?”

“In order to reply, I must first know the strength of all your forces combined.” He spoke with downcast eyes, apparently all devotion, and only intent on his master’s advantage. Cousrouf Pacha was far from suspecting with what feverish suspense the sarechsme awaited his reply.

“I will tell you, and you alone, Mohammed Ali,” replied he, in subdued tones. “We have only sixteen or seventeen thousand soldiers, and it will be difficult to concentrate them at one point, as they are scattered throughout Middle and Upper Egypt. The nucleus of this army that is to be formed consists of the four thousand Albanians sent me by the capitan pacha, and these Albanians count double. They are strong and brave. To be sure they are also a little too wild and headstrong; and, in addition, they are not Turks.”

“O highness,” said Mohammed, with a sigh, “if that is a fault, I must express my profound regret, as I unfortunately am not a Turk myself.”

“And yet I confide in you,” said Cousrouf, “as I know you are repairing the misfortune of your birth by your deeds. But I would never place the same reliance in the old troops of Albania; and, therefore, I have formed a corps of Nubians, and selected a body- guard from the number of these black slaves, and upon them I can and do rely. They have become good soldiers; I have taken a number of French soldiers into my service, and they have drilled my body-guard well. Yes, upon them I can rely. If traitors should come near me, they would slay them.”

“How could traitors come near your highness?” said Mohammed, with an air of dismay. ” Who could dare to threaten Cousrouf Pacha, the kind and noble ruler, with treason! No. You can sleep in peace. Treason must stand aloof from your great and sacred person.”

The pacha shook his head. “The viceroy will not sleep in peace, Mohammed, until you can announce to him that the last Mameluke bey lies dead at your feet.”

“I trust, highness, that I shall soon be able to make this announcement,” said Mohammed, in kindly tones. “My most ardent desire is to march out to battle, and prove to my kind master that I am not only a good soldier, but also a true and devoted servant.”

“Then march out to battle, Mohammed, and be mindful of what I before said. Cousrouf will, perhaps, be able to reward the victorious Mohammed with a beautiful young wife, with a rich dowry. Go! Be mindful of this, and hold your troops in readiness to march. Taher Pacha will already have received my orders to join you; and Youssouf Bey, my lieutenant, is also ready to take the field. You will follow him rapidly, and, united, you will give battle to the Mamelukes.” He then dismissed Mohammed with a gracious salutation.

As the latter passes out through the antechamber, his head humbly bowed down, he whispers to himself: “The black body-guard would slay those who should threaten your life! Cousrouf Pacha, I am glad you rely on your black body-guard!”

CHAPTER XII

THE ABDUCTION.

OSMAN BEY BARDISSI was encamped on the plain of Darmanhour with his Mamelukes, awaiting the arrival of L’Elfi Bey and his forces. Spies and scouts had announced that the Turkish army was advancing from Cairo in two columns, and that Taher Pacha was approaching from another direction–from Upper Egypt-at the head of seven thousand men.

Bardissi’s countenance lighted up with joy when the Bedouin sheik Arnhyn brought this intelligence.

“The decisive moment, the day of battle is at hand. If we are victors, how Sitta Nefysseh will smile on us, how happy she will be!”

Yes, the decisive moment is at hand. Perhaps Nefysseh’s cold heart will be touched, perhaps she will bestow upon the victor a glorious reward–herself.

But why does not L’Elfi come? Without him Bardissi cannot, he well knows, venture to give battle, for he, with his men and the Mamelukes of Elmar Bey, is too weak to engage an enemy of such superior strength.

“To be sure, the Turks are cowards,” said Osman to himself; “and against the Turks every Mameluke counts for two. Yet, as the scouts announce, their forces are too strong for us. Youssouf Bey comes first at the head of three thousand Turks, and the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, follows him with five thousand men. In addition to these, Taher Pacha is also advancing with his forces; if they all unite, it is impossible that we should be victorious, and yet we must be victorious.”

At last, intelligence is brought that L’Elfi Bey is advancing. He, however, brings but few of his warriors with him, and his countenance is sad and gloomy.

The beys, Osman at their head, gather around him, and impart to him the intelligence brought by the scouts with regard to the strength of the enemy.

“We should therefore advance against him as soon as possible, and vanquish one of his corps after the other before they have time to unite.”

L’Elfi Bey shook his head. “We must wait, friends and companions in arms,” said he. “I think it would be rash and unwise to meet the enemy, when his army is twice as strong as ours, and I came here to tell you this.”

“Then, by Allah, it would have been better had you not come!” cried Bardissi, angrily. “Shall the Turks say of us that we, the brave and haughty Mamelukes, have fled at their approach?”

“Let them say what they please, Osman Bey Bardissi,” responded L’Elfi Bey, throwing his head back proudly. “What care we? We do not flee, we only retreat. And our friends advise us to do this.”

“Who are these friends?” asked Bardissi, angrily.

“The English, none of whom, as you know, have ever deceived us. They have informed me that the Turks are advancing in three columns, and have advised me not to attack them. They say it would be a great risk, and such a risk would not be advisable without a better prospect of success. But we could not hope for success, for, as you know yourselves, we are in want of arms and ammunition. If vanquished, we should also be massacred, and they would finish here at Damanhour the work they began at Aboukir. Can you desire that, ye beys?”

“We desire to conquer, and not to flee like cowards!” replied Bardissi, haughtily.

“The unwise general attacks incautiously, and when defeated is laughed at for his pains,” replied L’Elfi. “The wise general yields to necessity, and awaits his opportunity.”

“Then you can wait, L’Elfi!” cried Bardissi.

“I will wait, and have resolved to do so,” said L’Elfi, gravely. “I came to warn you, and not to take part in this ridiculous expedition. But observe, Bardissi, I do not flee–I retreat. Woe to you if you do not follow my example; woe to you all if you let rashness instead of prudence prevail, and attack the Turks now! I repeat it, strong columns are advancing! First, Youssouf Bey; then the shrewd sarechsme–you know, Bardissi, who told us to beware of him–the shrewd sarechsme, Mohammed Ali; and, finally, Taher Pacha, and woe to you if you venture to attack them!”

“Woe to him who sees and understands his enemy, and yet dare not attack him!” cried Bardissi.

L’Elfi seemed not to hear him. He beckoned to the Mamelukes who had come with him, greeted his friends with a proud inclination of the head, and galloped away.

At a short distance from the camp a small body of English horsemen awaited L’Elfi and his Mamelukes. With them the Mameluke chieftain rode off, riding day and night until they reached Tantah; there fresh horses awaited them, and thence they continued their journey until they reached Alexandria. Here L’Elfi Bey embarked with the Englishmen. For the second time he left Egypt. He wished to forget in a foreign land that Mourad’s widow, the beautiful Sitta Nefysseh, had rejected him and his love. It was no consolation to him that Bardissi had suffered the same fate. Unrequited love causes bitter anguish. L’Elfi thought only of his heart’s misery, and cared nothing for war and military renown. He will return home when his heart’s anguish is stilled. Then L’Elfi Bey will draw his sword again to fight for victory and renown. Bardissi felt differently. If the former felt that it was necessary to go into solitude to heal his heart’s wounds, the latter preferred to seek distraction in inflicting wounds on his enemies. “For every sigh that passes his lips he will make a Turk exhale his life’s breath,” so thinks Bardissi the brave.

Immediately after L’Elfi’s departure, Bardissi called the kachefs of his Mamelukes, and those of Ibrahim Bey and Hassan Aga together, to hold a grand council of war on the plain of Damanhour.

“Do you wish to be cautious like L’Elfi? shall we retreat from the approaching enemy?” cries Osman Bey, the crown of bravery. “Speak, ye kachefs! We ask your advice, for not we alone, but you also, rush into danger. Our blood and yours is to be shed alike. Therefore, let us take counsel together. The enemy is very strong, as you know. He is approaching in three columns. I pray you to consider and determine quickly, as the danger increases with each minute. If the three columns unite, the danger is multiplied; therefore, every thing depends on quick and resolute action. Youssouf Bey, Sheik Arnhyn informs us, is only two days’ march distant–Mohammed Ali, three. It seems to me, our plan should be to march against Youssouf, and vanquish him before Mohammed Ali can join him; we will then attack Mohammed Ali. Having vanquished both of them, I hardly think Taber Pacha will have any desire to sustain the third defeat. We will then turn our attention to Cairo, now stripped of soldiers.”

The kachefs, who had listened to Bardissi’s words with sparkling eyes, spoke as one man:

“We will not retreat from the enemy like L’Elfi! Lead us against him! We will vanquish him! We are strong and courageous! Our steeds will bear us upon them with the wings of the wind, and our swords, aided by those of the invisible hosts, will prove invincible. The time has at last come to let these Turks feel that we are heroes, and not cowards. Lead us against the enemy!”

“Then retire to rest early,” cried Bardissi, his countenance radiant with joy. “Unsaddle your horses and let them rest, too. To-morrow at the break of day we mount, and fly with the wings of the wind to meet the enemy. Allah and his holy hosts are with us.”

“Allah and his holy hosts are with us!” is the joyous cry repeated by the kachefs. Soon all is still in the camp of Damanhour. Men and horses are at rest.

Bey Bardissi alone has not yet retired. He calls the Bedouin sheik, Arnhyn, to his side. “You are brave and daring. I have work for you, for which you shall be richly rewarded. If we are victorious, you shall collect all the spoils you may desire from the field of battle, and no one shall hinder you. The steeds and saddles, and the arms and equipments of all the captured Turks, shall be yours. As you know, three other sheiks have already applied to me, and offered to assist with their camels and horses. You shall, however, have the spoils of the battle-field if you will perform the service I require of you.”

“Give me your commands, master,” said the Bedouin sheik, his eyes sparkling with delight. “If you do not require me to pluck the sun from heaven, or to lay the moon and stars at your feet, Sheik Arnhyn will execute your commands for so rich a reward. Ah! how delighted my daughter Butheita will be when I bring her the beautiful horses, and glittering swords and daggers! The child loves such things. She is not like other women, she is more like a man. How Butheita will rejoice over the arms!”

“Then make her rejoice, Arnhyn. And now hear how you can do so. You informed me that Youssouf and his forces were in advance of the others, and that Mohammed Ali followed him?”

“Thus it is; a day’s march in advance. But Mohammed Ali, so everybody says, is a daring and untiring soldier. Who knows but he may march at night, too, and unite with Youssouf?”

“You are right, Arnhyn,” replied Bardissi, “and it is this that I wish to prevent. I wish, if possible, to avoid encountering Mohammed Ali. It is of this that I desire to speak with you. Come, let us withdraw a little farther from the tents and discuss this matter.”

All is silent. The Mamelukes and kachefs lie sleeping beside their horses. No one hears what passes between the Mameluke bey, Osman Bardissi, and the Bedouin sheik, Arnhyn.

They speak in whispers; no one sees Arnhyn display his white teeth in his delight, nor sees the glad smile that suddenly lights up his countenance.

“A splendid scheme, master. By Allah! I would do it though you had not promised so rich a reward. I give you my word it shall be done as you direct. We will make Sarechsme Mohammed Ali harmless.”

“You will start out at once?” said Bardissi.

“Immediately, master, for I must soon return,” replied Arnhyn. “By sunrise you will come up with Youssouf, and I must be there with my ravens to gather the spoils. I will now fly to my tent; there near the Pyramids I shall meet my daughter Butheita, and she will arrange the rest.

You will find me at your tent by morning. If I am not there, Osman Bey Bardissi, you will know that the Bedouin sheik, Arnhyn, is no longer among the living, and that the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, has been too shrewd for him.”

BOOK. IV

THE VICEROY.

CHAPTER I

BUTHEITA.

On the green fields of Gheezeh, near the verge of the yellow desert, lies Mohammed Ali encamped with his forces. Five thousand brave soldiers, among them the Albanian corps, the best troops of the Turkish army, are under the command of the young sarechsme. In advance of him, Youssouf Bey is marching upon the Mamelukes with a corps of almost equal strength. According to the viceroy’s instructions, Mohammed Ali is to wait and see if Youssouf Bey does not prove strong enough to vanquish the Mamelukes unaided; if this should prove to be the case, it would not be advisable to lead a splendid army corps into battle unnecessarily.

Mohammed Ali, however, well understood the secret meaning of the viceroy’s instructions. Youssouf Bey is his lieutenant, his favorite, and his master is desirous that he alone shall reap the golden fruit of victory. If he is defeated, Mohammed is to march to Youssouf’s assistance with all possible speed. The latter is a day’s march in advance, and when his messengers reach Mohammed it will already be too late; the battle will have been lost and a new one will have to be fought with the elated victors. All this passes through Mohammed’s mind as he sits there in the silence and solitude of the night. All are sleeping. The warriors lie scattered over the wide plain beside their horses, their hands on their swords. No tents have been pitched: what need of them, the night is warm; and on the morrow they are to be on the march again toward Damanhour?

For the sarechsme alone a tent had been pitched, which could be seen from far out on the desert on whose verge it stood. Any one bringing him a message would have found the white tent, surmounted by a dark- red flag, without any difficulty. As was customary, two sentinels stood in front of the general’s tent. When all had gone to rest, Mohammed stepped out of his tent, and told the sentinels to lie down and go to sleep. What need of guards here in the midst of his faithful warriors? Let them all rest, for the morrow may be a day of great toil and fatigue. The sentinels thanked the sarechsme, and then lay down to sleep, their muskets at their side.

Mohammed returned to his tent, lay down on his mat, and, supporting his head on his hand was soon absorbed in thought. He lay there gazing out into the night, considering the viceroy’s plans, and also considering whether it would be advisable to obey his instructions.

Youssouf Bey is to have all the glory of victory, but Mohammed is to share defeat with him. If Youssouf Bey is victorious, Mohammed must return to Cairo with his troops, and the former will have reaped all the honors of the campaign. But if Youssouf Bey is defeated, Mohammed will have to march to his assistance with all possible speed, and will, nevertheless, arrive too late, when the battle is already lost. Then a new battle will have to be fought, and the Mamelukes, elated with their success, will hurl themselves upon his forces, and probably rout them. Victory would then be merely possible at best, and shall he rely on this possibility? It is to be his first great battle, and dare he allow it to be a defeat?

But what can he do?

He considers this, and his present relations with the viceroy. Has the time come when he can lay hands to his task with ruder touch; will it do to substitute stern words for soft flattery? He will not be able to decide until after this battle–that is, if he is to take part in it at all.

While he lies there absorbed in thought, all has become still without. The men are asleep; no one moves, no eye is open. No one sees a dark shadow flitting across the desert toward the tents. Now it halts near that of the sarechsme. A smaller shadow separates from the larger one; it stoops low, and glides along slowly and cautiously.

All are wrapped in slumber. The shadow stops before the tent; and now something glitters, like two sparkling stars fallen from heaven.

Perhaps they are the eyes of some savage beast prowling near the camp in search of prey.

No one sees these eyes. They are not the eyes of an animal, but of a human being who now stands upright in front of Mohammed’s tent.

Sleep has waved its black pinions over Mohammed, as he lies there lost in thought; his senses have become gradually confused, and he, too, now sleeps, dreaming of the viceroy, of the morrow, and of the Mameluke bey Bardissi, whom he would so gladly call his friend.

For a moment he opens his eyes; it seems to him that he hears a noise, a slight rustling against the canvas of the tent. Yet he sees nothing, and all is still. It is only a dream. He closes his eyes, the angel of sleep fans his brow, and his head sinks back upon the mat again.

It would have been well had the sentinels stood guard. They would not have allowed this black figure to spring into the tent with the bound of a tiger, and then glide like the noiseless serpent to the mat where Mohammed slept. They could have prevented this spectre from so quickly and noiselessly binding his feet and hands with thin ropes that he did not awake, and then suddenly and rapidly enveloping his head with a thick cloth, and adroitly tying it in a knot.

The sarechsme, now aroused, raises his head to hear the words: “Fear not, your life will be spared!” murmured in his ear.

And, while these words are being whispered, he feels the cloth about his head, and that he can utter no cry or word; he also becomes aware that his hands and feet are securely bound.

“And to this I have come!” thinks he. “Thus am I to die, an object of ridicule to the world and to myself!”

And, strange to say, his thoughts suddenly revert to the past. Thus bound and gagged, had he once lain in another place. And he who perpetrated the horrible outrage, lives in splendor, and Mohammed has lived in vain, and must die unavenged! It is again Cousrouf Pacha who causes him to be bound and borne out. “Whither? whither? I ask! Do I not already know? Out to the Nile that glittered in the sunlight before me a few hours since. Oh, had I but known that it was to be my grave, and that Cousrouf had read and understood my thoughts! He felt that it was he or I, that one must go down; and now he stands secure on the heights, and I must sink down, down!”

Such are the thoughts that harrow his soul as he is lifted up by two strong arms and borne out into the night. He feels the quick breathing of him in whose arms he is borne; he is no light burden even for Sheik Arnhyn’s strong arms.

“How heavy you are, sarechsme!” murmurs he, smiling. “How light the viceroy’s army will be, when the heavy and distinguished sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, is wanting!”

All is still about them. Mohammed vainly endeavors to cry out, to release his hands; he is securely bound, and his lips can utter no word.

They stop at last, and Arnhyn speaks, but in such low tones that Mohammed can understand nothing. He only hears another voice replying. Then he is lifted high and deposited on a soft cushion.

“Now, Butheita,” murmured the voice of him who had borne him from the tent, “ride on to the tent with him, and keep him securely until our master, Osman Bey Bardissi, comes to speak with him! Guard him well, for you must know, my daughter, that, dearly as your father loves you, Butheita must die if he escapes. This, I swear, by Allah, so be on your guard, my daughter!”

“You can rely on me, Father Arnhyn,” replied the soft voice of a woman. “I shall guard him as though he were my dearest treasure on earth; he shall not escape Butheita.”

“Then farewell, my child! I must now hasten back, for to-morrow will be a day of battle. But I hope to bring you rich spoils in two days, and Osman Bey has promised to reward me well for my work. Hold him fast, Butheita; he is bound and gagged, and you have nothing to fear from him. Allah be with you, my child!”

And now they ride swiftly through the night. Whither? He knows not. He lies bound on a cushion, and only feels, by the movement of the animal, and by the shaking and jolting his body undergoes, that he is on the back of a dromedary. Sometimes, when, as it seems to him, he is on the point of being hurled from his high seat, he feels himself grasped and placed in an easier position on his cushion by two arms, and then on they move again at a swift trot. He feels that they are riding through the desert. The camel’s feet sink deep into the sand, and then, when the ground beneath becomes firm, their speed is increased, and lessened when it again sinks into the sand. To Mohammed the ride seems to have lasted an eternity already. However, a few hours only have passed, when the dromedary halts, and a sweet voice whispers:

“I am sorry for you; it is horrible to be borne on through the night this way, bound and gagged, your face covered. I should like to relieve you by removing the cloth. But if you are cruel, you might tear my arm with your teeth.”

Mohammed shakes his head slightly, and she feels the movement in her arm that encircles his head.

“You shake your head and promise not to do so, stranger, and I will trust you. I will free your head and lips, but I must first bind you to the saddle, to make sure of you.” She unwinds the shawl from her delicate waist, slips it around his body, and binds him securely to the palanquin; she then unties the knot binding the cloth that envelops his head and passes over his mouth. The cloth falls down and Mohammed breathes freer and looks up. It is a clear, starry night, and Butheita’s eyes are accustomed to darkness, and see as well at night as in the daytime. She gazes down upon his countenance, and a sunny smile illumines her features. He sees her not; his eyes are still blinded; neither can he speak yet, he can only breathe more freely, and he eagerly inhales the fresh night air.

“Handsome is the stranger,” said she, in a voice of wondrous sweetness. “Already a sarechsme, and still so young! I supposed my father had brought me an old gray-beard, and it had distressed me to torment you so, and now I see a strong young hero, and I feel doubly distressed at your being the prisoner of a poor girl.”

He looks up, and now he sees the fair face with its starlike eyes sparkling down upon him. The night is clear, and the yellow sand whirled aloft by the camel’s feet imparts a golden lustre to the atmosphere; the appearance of the horizon also announces that the rosy dawn is about to contend with the starry night. Mohammed sees the lovely countenance with its brown tint, and its large black eyes and crimson lips, disclosing, as they now smile, her pearly teeth.

“Pity me not, Butheita,” murmured he. “To be the prisoner of a man would put the sarechsme to shame; but to be the prisoner of a houri of paradise, who holds him in sweet captivity, is, it seems to me, an enviable lot.”

“You speak prettily, O stranger,” said she, her countenance beaming with delight. “Your words come like music from your lips; such sweet words I never heard before. You speak as the scha-er sings, whom I once heard when with my father in Tantah. Oh, speak on, sing on, for songs round from your lips!”

“If my words are songs, yours are tones of the harp,” murmured he. “Oh, tell me, Butheita, where are we going? Who has commanded you to bear me away thus?”

“Did you not hear? I obey the commands of my father, who is in Osman Bey’s service. I do not know what they want of you, yet I believe they fear you, and wish to keep you from taking part in the great battle to-morrow. Yes, I know they fear you, for you are a hero. Now, I know how a hero must look, for you are a hero, and your eyes are as mighty as a host of armed warriors. Oh, now I understand why Osman Bey fears you, and why he offered my father so rich a reward to keep you from taking part in to-morrow’s battle.”

“That is it, that is then the reason I am led away captive,” cried Mohammed, not in threatening or lamenting tones, but joyously, for he feels that Cousrouf has answered the question with which he had vainly tormented himself; he had hesitated, now he feels that he has advanced a step farther toward his aim. Now he knows what he has to do; Fate has pointed out the road to his goal through Butheita, and he feels that she will lead him on until he reaches the throne seen by his mother in her dreams, and becomes the avenger of her he loved, of his Masa.

She still gazed upon the upturned countenance of her prisoner, now lighted up by the rosy light of the morning sun; she is struck with the tone of his voice, and is surprised to learn that the sarechsme is not dejected at his captivity.

“You rejoice,” said she, smiling, and again displaying her beautiful teeth. “You rejoice over your captivity.”

“I should like to be such a captive forever, Butheita; it is heavenly to be encircled in these fair arms.”

“You are singing your sweet songs again, and oh, they sound so sweet!” said she. And yet, as he attempts to lay his head closer to her shoulder, she timidly recoils with an anxious look in her eyes.

“Not so, stranger. Honor the hospitality of my house, for my dromedary is my house, and I wish you to be my guest. And, that you may see that Butheita is sensible of the duties of a hostess, accept this banana and refresh yourself; you will need it.”

She takes two bananas from the bag that hangs at the side of the saddle, and with delight Mohammed sees her peel the rich fruit, which she hands him with a delicious smile.

“Eat, stranger; eat, and refresh yourself.”

She has forgotten that he is bound, and that he cannot take the fruit from her hand.

“This heavenly fruit must be administered by your fair hand alone,” said he. “As my hands are bound, you must hold it to my lips yourself. Oh, that they were to be refreshed with yours instead of the banana!”

She smiles and looks down, blushingly. She then breaks the fruit and brings it to his lips in little morsels. And each time he raises his lips so high, that they touch not only the fruit but also her delicate brown fingers. It was sweet play, and Mohammed forgets all else. This night, minutes have been as hours to him, and now he would have them become eternities. Lovely is this child of the desert that bends down over him; a whole world of maidenly purity and sweetness Fate has pointed out the road to his goal through Butheita, and he feels that she will lead him on until he reaches the throne seen by his mother in her dreams, and becomes the avenger of her he loved, of his Masa.

She still gazed upon the upturned countenance of her prisoner, now lighted up by the rosy light of the morning sun; she is struck with the tone of his voice, and is surprised to learn that the sarechsme is not dejected at his captivity.

“You rejoice,” said she, smiling, and again displaying her beautiful teeth. “You rejoice over your captivity.”

“I should like to be such a captive forever, Butheita; it is heavenly to be encircled in these fair arms.”

“You are singing your sweet songs again, and oh, they sound so sweet!” said she. And yet, as he attempts to lay his head closer to her shoulder, she timidly recoils with an anxious look in her eyes.

“Not so, stranger. Honor the hospitality of my house, for my dromedary is my house, and I wish you to be my guest. And, that you may see that Butheita is sensible of the duties of a hostess, accept this banana and refresh yourself; you will need it.”

She takes two bananas from the bag that hangs at the side of the saddle, and with delight Mohammed sees her peel the rich fruit, which she hands him with a delicious smile.

“Eat, stranger; eat, and refresh yourself.”

She has forgotten that he is bound, and that he cannot take the fruit from her hand.

“This heavenly fruit must be administered by your fair hand alone,” said he. “As my hands are bound, you must hold it to my lips yourself. Oh, that they were to be refreshed with yours instead of the banana!”

She smiles and looks down, blushingly. She then breaks the fruit and brings it to his lips in little morsels. And each time he raises his lips so high, that they touch not only the fruit but also her delicate brown fingers. It was sweet play, and Mohammed forgets all else. This night, minutes have been as hours to him, and now he would have them become eternities. Lovely is this child of the desert that bends down over him; a whole world of maidenly purity and sweetness permitted to wander freely through the desert, and not cooped up in the second apartment of the tent, and not compelled to cover my face with a veil. However, when I ride with father to Tantah, then, O stranger, I dress myself up as the women of the cities do! Then I wear a long silk dress and a splendid veil, and color my lips and hands with henna!”

“That is to say, Butheita, you make of the houri of paradise an ordinary human being. I should not like to see you when you look like other women. You are the Queen of the Desert, Butheita.”

“How do you know that? So am I called by the Bedouins who are my father’s subjects. Yes, they are very respectful to their sheik’s daughter, and call me Queen of the Desert. They sometimes say,” continued she, smiling: “‘Her countenance shines like the sun, enkindling in flames the hearts of all who approach her.’ I, however, hold myself aloof from them, and do not listen to what they say, else my father would become angry, and would deprive me of my liberty to roam about as I please. And now you know all, stranger, and know why I may not kiss you, though I would gladly do something to please the poor prisoner; but I have promised this to my father and to myself. Therefore, no more of this. Here we must halt. Look at the sublime image that stands there so grandly, and throws its black shadow far out over the yellow sand. That is the true Queen of the Desert. Let me turn the animal so that you can see our queen.”

Mohammed looked up and bowed his head in awe before the monster image that stood before him. He saw a human face and a mighty figure towering before him in gigantic proportions. Yes, it was a human countenance! From out those eyes, which seemed to compass a whole world within their deep hollows, the grandeur and sublimity of the human mind appeared to speak to him. What majestic thought was reflected in that massive forehead? The eloquent mouth seemed to announce the grand mystery of the universe. The whole mighty countenance seemed to contain a heaven of sublime peace, and to be radiant with a happiness unknown to the human breast on earth, for man has suffered and suffers. Doubt, anxiety, care, and misery, have sojourned in every mortal breast; but this countenance, that towers like a mountain in its divine majesty, knows nothing of human doubt and suffering. Its face is radiant with divine, eternal tranquillity–with the peace of the universe.

“How grand, how sublime!” murmured Mohammed, gazing fixedly at the colossal image that has for thousands of years looked on man, and smiled on him from out the depths of its unfathomable eyes. The sphinx has looked calmly down upon generation after generation, upon men of every faith and religion, and has seen them pass away. Heathens have become Christians, Jews, Mohammedans, and the latter in their turn have become converted to other faiths, and change upon change has taken place. The sphinx has looked down upon all this! itself divine, unchangeable in the midst of all that has passed and passes away.

“See,” murmured Butheita, “this is the Queen of the Desert. She is the holy sphinx, before whom men and women have fallen in the dust for thousands of years, and before whom kings and emperors prostrate themselves to this day. Thus spoke the scha-er whom I heard when with my father in Tantah a short time since: `He who approaches the protecting goddess of mankind must fall down in the dust before her, and worship Allah and the saints.’

“Kneel down, my dromedary, kneel down, my Alpha!” and she draws in her reins, repeating the words in imperious tones. The animal understands her, and sinks gravely upon its knees. Butheita bounds down from her seat with the lightness of the gazelle, and bows low before the sphinx, her arms crossed on her breast.

From the back of the dromedary, where he lies bound, her prisoner looks down with admiration upon the lovely girlish figure that skips lightly across the sand to the foot of the godlike figure. How small she appears beside the mighty image, like a flower blooming at its feet.

Butheita kneels down before the sphinx and murmurs a prayer for protection for herself and father, for the tent in which they dwell, for the dromedary, and for the goats; and finally also for the stranger whom she is about to lead to her tent. “Grant, 0 Allah, that I may be mild, and that he may not feel his fetters too severely! And you, O holy goddess of the desert, grant that Butheita’s heart may remain pure and strong, and that she may be enabled to keep the promise made to her father!”

As she murmurs these words a slight tremor possessed itself of her delicate figure, and piously and timidly she looks up into the illimitable, unfathomable eyes of the sphinx, that gaze out upon the whole world. Then she rises and smilingly salutes once more with her little brown hand the Queen of the Desert, and, springing lightly upon the back of her dromedary, grasps the reins.

Butheita’s countenance now wears a serious expression. It seems she has brought solemn thoughts with her from the goddess of the desert, and from time to time she casts a timid glance at the prisoner, who lies bound before her. The dromedary moves on at a uniform speed. Those it is bearing on ward speak but little. Butheita’s heart is oppressed; the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, is thoughtful and grave.

Once Butheita raises her arm and points to some towering objects defined sharply against the sky in the distance.

“See, stranger, see; those are the grand monuments of our kings, the Pharaohs, the pyramids, and there lies Sakkara, where the graves of the holy oxen are to be seen. We are almost at our journey’s end. There lies the village of Petresin. Its inhabitants still sleep, and the doors of the huts are closed: they do not see us. That is well, that is necessary; my father said no one must know that we are taking you away a prisoner. Do you see that little spot on the verge of the dessert? That is my father’s tent.”

Butheita patted her dromedary on the neck with her little hand, urging it to greater speed. Like an arrow they flew across the sand until they had reached her father’s tent. Butheita drew in her reins at the door and commanded the animal to kneel down.

“Stranger, we are at our journey’s end! At the threshold of our tent, Butheita bids you welcome, blessed be your entrance into our house!”

She quickly loosens the shawl that binds him to the saddle, and before he is aware of what she is doing lifts him in her arms. Lightly, as though he were a plaything, she bears him into the inner apartment of the tent, where she smilingly deposits him on a mat.

“Blessed be your entrance into my tent! Now refresh yourself with repose after your long ride. I am going out to prepare your breakfast.”

He follows Butheita with eager eyes, as she steps into the other apartment of the tent. Forgotten are all the schemes and thoughts that ordinarily occupy him day and night. Forgotten are the past and future; he now lives for the present only. May the sun mercifully stand still, and this hour prove an eternity! Why occupy himself with thoughts of the future, the present is so beautiful, so heavenly? Oh, that it could last forever! But no! a cloud passes over his brow; he remembers–

“No! Let the present pass rapidly,” said he. “I am a prisoner, and how would my soldiers laugh to see the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, bound and a captive in the tent of a Bedouin chieftain!”

He knew that Butheita had remained in the other apartment and heard his words. She quickly went to him, profound sorrow depicted in her charming countenance.

“They would laugh at you, sarechsme? Oh, how sorry I should be to have them do so! True, it is unpleasant to be a prisoner. Yet, you must know that my father is highly esteemed; he is the first man of the village. O sarechsme, the Bedouins call him their father, their protector, and the Mamelukes are proud of his friendship; and it was out of love for them that he made you a prisoner. If you are unhappy, oh, forgive poor Butheita, who was compelled to obey her father’s commands! Oh, do not be angry with her!”

“I am not angry with you,” said he, gently. “Yet consider, is it not hard and shameful for me, a man and a soldier, to lie here bound hand and foot?”

Her countenance lighted up with joy. “Yes, I understand that,” said she, thoughtfully. “It pains me to the soul, not to be able to lessen your misery, to improve your condition. Yet,” she suddenly continued, “I can and I will relieve you.”

“That you can, if you will,” murmured he. “Seat your self beside me, Butheita. Let me hear your voice. Tell me the sweet history of your heart. Remain with me till your father comes. While listening I shall forget all shame and disgrace, and rejoice only in your presence. It would seem as though, a good spirit had led me into another world, where an angel was bowed down over me, to whom I looked up in sweet ecstasy!”

“No, it will only be a poor child of the desert, who sits beside you,” said Butheita, smiling. “Only look at poor, miserable me. There is nothing beautiful or radiant about me, proud stranger! Let me go, you would die of hunger and thirst if I remained here, and it would be shameful, too, if I should neglect the duty of hospitality toward my guest. But I will tell you what I can and will do! You shall not lie there bound. I will not have it so, Mohammed Ali. Give me your sacred word that you will not leave, but will remain here until my father comes for you. Give me your word, and I will untie the cords that bind your hands and feet. Give me your word.”

He looks at her in astonishment.

“Do you still have such faith in man’s promises that you believe I would keep my word if I gave it?”

“Yes,” said she, smiling; “I do; this would be a horrible world if one could not. My father has often said to me: ‘When a man has given his word he keeps it, though the consequence should be death. Thus a truly brave man acts; only cowards break their word.'”

“Then you consider me a truly brave man, Butheita, and not a coward?”

“It is only necessary to look at you, stranger,” said she, with a winning smile, “to feel in the depths of one’s heart that you are a man, and no coward. Give me your word, and you are unfettered. Give me your word that you will not leave.”

“Well,” said he, gazing at her joyously, “I give you my word, as a man! I swear by Allah, and the prophet, and by my own honor, I will not leave here until your father comes and says that I may, and states the conditions. I will, if you will permit me, remain with you in the mean while, and do nothing but look at you. I will be your slave; drink the sweet dew from your lips, and read your commands in your eyes. Tell me, pearl of women, will you accept me as your slave?”

Without answering his question, she knelt down blushingly, and untied the cords that bound his hands and feet. “Now, stand up, a free man!”

He arose, and with a feeling of intense relief, stretched out the hands that ached from their long confinement, and extended his arms. He would gladly have clasped the girl in their embrace, but, with the grace and ease of a gazelle, she sprang back out of his reach to the door of the tent, and looked at him threateningly.

“Mohammed Ali, if you abuse your freedom, you are not the man I took you to be.”

He bowed his head in silence. “You are right, Butheita, forgive me!