Mohammed Ali and His House by Luise von Muhlbach (page 9)

He received them in his apartment, advancing to meet them with a kindly greeting.

“What do you desire, friends? You know I am always glad to hear the wishes of the people as pronounced by you, their representatives.”

“Then listen to these wishes, highness!” said one of the sheiks. “The people, and we with them, desire that Sitta Nefysseh, who was yesterday forcibly taken from her house, be permitted to return to the same. Her house has been shamefully ill-used, Cousrouf Pacha! Your police have treated it like the house of an enemy. Nothing has remained in its place; every thing is overturned and thrown about. They were looking for treasure, highness, and they found nothing. Sitta Nefysseh was considered rich, and that was perhaps her crime; or will your highness be kind enough to inform us if Sitta Nefysseh is accused of any other crime!”

“She is,” replied Cousrouf. “She is accused of the most shameful of all crimes. Her kachef attempted to corrupt one of my soldiers, offering him double pay if he would desert to the army of the rebellious Mamelukes.”

“Is that proven, highness ?” asked the sheik.

“It is proven! I possess written proof of the fact. Here it is; read it for yourselves. This attempt has excited the just wrath of my good soldiers. Believe it was in order to protect Sitta Nefysseh from the fury of my soldiers that I called her here. I repeat it, Sitta Nefysseh, Mourad Bey’s widow, has endeavored to corrupt, and has offered my soldiers double pay. She is now in my power, and I will punish her; yet, I will be merciful on your account. Let her do as she offered–let her give my soldiers their pay, and her offence shall be overlooked this time.”

“That would be a punishment not prescribed by law,” replied the sheik, quietly. “If Sitta Nefysseh is really guilty of the crime of which you accuse her, she is indeed very culpable, highness; but she can not atone for it with money. Her guilt must, however, be proven; and it devolves upon us, the representatives of public justice, to consider and determine whether Sitta Nefysseh is guilty or not.”

“Does not my word suffice?” cried Cousrouf, passionately. “I tell you that she is guilty, that I have proof of her guilt, and I declare that this suffices. I repeat what I have said, if she pays my soldiers she is free.”

“That does not suffice!” replied the sheik. “We must first know whether Sitta Nefysseh confesses herself guilty. In accordance with the law and with your permission, highness, let two of the sheiks go to Sitta Nefysseh and ask her if she confesses herself guilty; and, further, what she has to say in her defence. This is just, and this must be done.”

“Do as you say. Go to her. But her own declaration of her innocence will not suffice for me. She must have as much proof of her innocence as I have of her guilt. Go to Sitta Nefysseh. You will find her in the house of Sheik Hesseyni.”

With a profound bow the sheiks withdrew from the viceroy’s apartment and repaired to the house of Sheik Hesseyni.

Sitta Nefysseh greeted the cadis and sheiks with profound deference and perfect composure.

“I see,” said she, gently, “you believe in my innocence, and know that Sitta Nefysseh is guilty of no crime, and has been unjustly covered with shame.”

“We well know that you have committed no crime,” said the sheik. “The viceroy, however, accuses you of having attempted to corrupt his soldiers through your kachef; tell us, is this true?”

“You well know that it is not true! Why should I do it, and how could I be so foolish as to attempt such a thing? I give you my word, I swear by the memory of Mourad Bey, I am innocent of the crime of which I am accused. I have not attempted to corrupt the soldiers of Cousrouf Pacha, nor have I authorized my kachef to do so. Believe me, I speak the truth. But, tell me, was that all the viceroy said? I think I see through his plans, and understand this accusation. Did he not name the punishment he intended to inflict on me?”

“He did. You are to he set at liberty as soon as you pay his soldiers–what he maintains you promised–their double pay.”

“Is it not as I said?” cried she, in derisive tones. “Cousrouf Pacha wants money! He has heard stories of my wealth, and believes me rich; and now, relying on a woman’s timidity, he endeavors to extort money from me. He wants money, and therefore makes this shameful charge. Go, I beg you, to the viceroy, and tell him Mourad’s widow is poor, and has nothing with which to appease his rapacity. Let him take my life if he will. I am innocent, and if be causes me to be put to death, I shall charge him with murder at Allah’s footstool! I have nothing else to give him. Let him deal with me as he thinks proper.”

“We will tell him all you say, for you are in the right, Sitta Nefysseh,” replied the sheik. ” And if you possessed all the wealth of Egypt, with the millions that lie buried in its deserts, you would be justified in secreting them from the tyranny and fraud that seek to extort from you your property. We will therefore defend you to the best of our ability.–Come, sheiks, let us return to the viceroy.”

They repaired to the citadel, and told the viceroy what had passed.

“She is really poor, highness,” said the cadi. “She declares her innocence. She does not possess the treasure you speak of, and therefore she can not comply with your demands. Her house has been searched through, and, as you are aware, nothing has been found.”

“No, nothing has been found,” said the viceroy to himself, stepping, back and walking thoughtfully to and fro. “A fearful thought occurs to me! Mohammed Ali may have advised me to take this step with an evil purpose, seeking my destruction. He hates me in his heart! I was a fool to allow myself to be persuaded to stretch out my hand after this woman’s wealth. But I will be avenged on Mohammed! However, having once embarked in this undertaking, I will at least endeavor to withdraw from it creditably. I must give myself the appearance of still believing in Sitta Nefysseh’s guilt.”

He turned to the sheiks, who were awaiting his decision in respectful silence. In haughty terms he declined to admit that he had been deceived, and that Sitta Nefysseh was innocent.

“The accused must be punished! ” cried Cousrouf, in loud and threatening tones.

The cadi drew himself up and gazed firmly at the viceroy.

“Highness, our patience is now at an end. We have sought to obtain justice by peaceful entreaties. You refuse it, and your refusal is an insult to us, the servants of our holy religion, and the representatives of the people. Here, we have therefore nothing more to say or to do. Nothing is left us but to depart and repair to the mosque of El-Azar, where the head of the martyr Sel-Kosyn is buried. There we will gather the people about us and decide as justice shall require.–Come, ye sheiks, let us go to the mosque!”

“Do so!” cried Cousrouf, haughtily. “But, let me tell you this: if you excite the people to revolt, my cannon shall thunder among you! You will be responsible for the consequences.”

They made no reply, but turned and left the apartment.

CHAPTER VII

MONEY! PAY!

Without in the vestibule they met Mustapha, the guardian of the revenues of the holy temple of Mecca. Beside him stood several of the leading citizens of Cairo. They had come to settle amicably, if possible, the grave difficulty between the viceroy and the sheiks.

“Do not let it come to extremes, cadi,” said the oualy, in warning tones. “You know the viceroy is very powerful, and his fierce soldiers take delight in slaughter.”

“No, do not let it come to extremes,” said the others, joining in his entreaty. “Consider that they are strong, and we are weak.”

“No we are strong, for we are in the right,” said the cadi. “We cannot allow justice to be set at defiance, and the noblest of the women of Cairo to be shamefully insulted. The people look to us, their representatives, to protect them, and woe to us if we fail to discharge our duty! Come, let us to the mosque, and there render to the people an account of what we have done.”

“Do this at your peril!” cried Mustapha. “O cadi, the viceroy is resolute and defies us with his troops. Let me at least make an attempt to settle the matter peaceably.”

“Let him do so,” cried the others. At last, the cadi consented to wait until the oualy should have seen the viceroy.

“If he liberates Sitta Nefysseh, and allows you to conduct her through the streets, will you be satisfied?”

“Not satisfied, but we will demand nothing more,” said the cadi, “although the viceroy should be required to confess, publicly, that the accusation is unjust.”

“That is too much. This the viceroy cannot and will not do,” cried the oualy. “Be contented if he sets the Sitta at liberty, and allows you to show her to the people.”

“But we demand, in addition,” said the cadi, “that he with draw his police from her house.”

“That he has already done,” said the oualy, smiling. “Not finding what they sought, the soldiers have quietly with drawn.”

“Then I shall go at once to the viceroy, and endeavor to soften his severity,” cried Mustapha Aga. “Await my return here.”

Mustapha hastened to the viceroy’s apartment. In a few minutes he returned, his countenance radiant with delight.

“Ye men, the viceroy has graciously accorded what we demand, and you are to conduct the Sitta in triumph through the city. What, cadi! you receive this intelligence calmly and gloomily?”

“The times are gloomy and lowering,” said the cadi. “That the viceroy sets the Sitta at liberty proves only that he had no right to arrest her, and that the viceroy does right or wrong at his own pleasure. That saddens me. Come, let us go after Sitta Nefysseh.”

“Wait a moment,” said Mustapha. “The viceroy annexes a little condition to his consent.”

“I thought so,” said the cadi, quietly.

“The viceroy requires that the Sitta shall not return to her house, as he has been informed that she often receives the visits of the Mameluke chieftains there. Her house is in the outskirts of the city, and it is difficult to observe those who enter and leave it. It is peculiarly accessible to the enemy, and the viceroy therefore requires that Sitta Nefysseh shall no longer reside there, but in the house of Sheik Sadat. She cannot refuse to do this.”

“And she will not,” said Sheik Sadat. “No, she will not refuse to honor the abode of her old friend with her presence. Come, let us go.”

They then repaired at once to the house of Sheik Hesseyni, who, already informed of what had taken place, came forward to meet them, leading Sitta Nefysseh. She extended her hand to the cadi, and then turned to Sadat:

“Will you receive me into your dwelling? Will you extend your hospitality to the poor woman who has been driven from her own home?”

“Welcome to my house, Sitta!” cried Sadat. “It seems to me that with you my noble friend Mourad Bey will also cross my threshold once more. Your presence in my humble house will do me great honor. How delighted my wives will be to receive you!”

The people had again assembled in front of the gates of the citadel. As these were now opened, and Sitta Nefysseh appeared coming toward them in the midst of her escort, the people recognized her queenly figure and bearing, although her face was veiled. Shouts of delight rent the air. “Long live Sitta Nefysseh, and the cadi! Praised be Allah that we have a cadi who enforces our rights!” ` Cousrouf sat on his divan in his apartment. He heard this cry, and muttered between his teeth, “These rebels shall pay for this!”

The shouting populace conducted Sitta Nefysseh in triumph through the streets. The cadi was loudly applauded, and the viceroy derided.

These shouts were not only heard by the viceroy, but also by Mohammed Ali in his silent chamber, and they brought a smile to his lips. He had stayed in his apartments all day, and had also commanded his soldiers to remain in their quarters.

“It works well,” said he to himself. “These shouts show how good was the advice I gave him. Shrewd as you are, Cousrouf, you are beaten at your own game. The people are contented to know you, enthroned in the citadel. They dreamed of happiness and peace, and called you a just ruler. I have opened their eyes. Today, they know Cousrouf to be an unjust ruler, and love him no longer. You enraged them most when you dared to insult the woman who is most honored in Cairo. From this moment, not only the men, but, what is far worse, the women, are arrayed against you.”

He had risen and was walking to and fro in his apartment.

From time to time he stopped at the window to listen to the cries that resounded from the streets, and then resumed his walking.

“What curses good Cousrouf must be invoking upon my head at this moment! He will have discovered by this time that his good friend Mohammed still somewhat resembles the ‘insolent lad,’ as he always called him, of Cavalla. You have schooled me well, Cousrouf; you have converted the insolent lad into a lion who wears the skin of a fox. You were pleased with the fox, stroked his fur, and called him your devoted servant. But, only wait, the fox-skin will soon fall to the ground and disclose the lion ready to destroy you. Yes,” continued he, “wait but a few days longer, and this transformation shall take place. It must take place. The week will soon have elapsed, and then Bardissi must have my answer. Cousrouf shall hear it and quake in his citadel. Everything is ready, and my new friends shall soon hear from me.”

Suddenly he stopped before the window and listened attentively. Fierce and savage cries had succeeded the shouts of joy. The voices of women and children were now hushed, and the hoarse tones of men only could be heard. He hastily stepped back from the window. No, he must not be seen. If seen, he might be called and compelled to join in the movement against his will, and the time has not yet come. He must still wait.

He stood still in the middle of the room, and listened to the uproar that came.

“This is revolt! These are soldiers!” said he to himself, stepping to the door of the antechamber, and beckoning to a slave. “What is the meaning of this uproar?”

“I know not, sarechsme. Shall I go down to inquire?”

“Go down, mingle with the crowd, and find out what it means, and then return to me as quickly as possible.”

The Nubian hastened to do his master’s bidding. Mohammed continued to walk to and fro. The uproar, as it came nearer, had become intelligible.

“We want money! Give us bread! We are hungry. and must have our pay!”

Such were the savage cries that resounded from the street below.

“Ah, I understand,” said Mohammed to himself ; “these are Taher Pacha’s soldiers! He has marched with them into the city, to begin the work on his own account; Taher is ambitious, and wants the viceroy’s throne. He begins the work of rebellion for himself, he will end it for me; though I can as yet take no active part in it! O Sitta Nefysseh, you have brought me a step nearer to the throne, and Taber is advancing me another. Wait, Mohammed, only wait.”

The Nubian returned and announced that a revolt had broken oat among Taber Pacha’s soldiers. They had gone to the citadel, and savagely demanded their pay. The viceroy had received a deputation sent by them, and told them to go to the defterdar, and demand payment of him in the viceroy’s name. In accordance with this demand, the soldiers had then repaired to the house of the defterdar, and had, upon admission being denied them, broken down the doors. The minister of finance, however, rid himself of them by telling them to demand their pay of Mohammed Ali, who had a few days before received ten purses of gold from the viceroy for the payment of the troops.

“And now the soldiers have come here,” said the Nubian, in deferential, anxious tones. “They have surrounded the house, and demand their pay. They are furious, and swear by Allah and the prophet that they will not rest until they have received the money due them. They complain, too, of being sent from house to house like beggars.”

“The poor fellows are right,” said Mohammed.

Fierce cries now resounded from below:

“We will not be trodden under foot like dogs! We are no beggars! Give us our pay, Mohammed Ali! The defterdar sends us to you! You have our money, and we want it!”

He sprang to the window, tore it open, and, in tones that were heard above the uproar, commanded silence.

“The defterdar has deceived you. I have no money! I will come down to you.”

He quickly stepped back from the window, and laid the sword, dagger, and pistols, that hung in his belt, on the table.

“They shall see that I am not alarmed. I will go down to them unarmed.”

No, Mohammed Ali is not alarmed, they all perceive as he appears among them unarmed, and motions the soldiers, that are rushing upon him, back, with a wave of the hand.

“Stand back, soldiers, and do not forget that I am the sarechsme. Not your general, but yet, like you, in the viceroy’s service.”

“Does he also pay you as he does us? ” asked a soldier, in mocking tones. “Do they also give you empty promises instead of money?”

“That is an insolent question,” said he. “I will, however, answer it, because I choose to do so. They do not pay me. They gave the sarechsme, after he had waited in vain for many months, ten purses of gold; they owe him more. Ask my soldiers what I did with this money. I shared it with my soldiers as a general should. I retained five purses, for this amount was due my creditors. The other five purses I gave to my soldiers–not as their pay, the viceroy owes them that, but as a present from me. I have received no other money- -I swear to this by Allah and the prophet. Go to my soldiers and ask them if this is not true, and then do as you think proper.”

“Long live Mohammed Ali! Long live the generous sarechsme!” cried one of the soldiers, and the cry was taken up and repeated by all the rest.

“It is needless to go to the soldiers, for the sarechsme tells the truth. Let us return to the defterdar; he must and shall pay us!”

The revolting soldiers surged on up the street. Mohammed, however, returned to his solitary apartments with a clearer brow and a more derisive smile on his lips:

“This was well done, and can tend only to my advantage. Taher Pacha will not be much pleased, either, when his soldiers tell him of the presents made by me to mine. The waves are surging higher and higher, but I see the boat in which I am to ride over them safely. The golden oars only are wanting, but I shall find them, too!”

He called the Nubian, and commanded him to tell his bim bashis he desired to see them. And when they came he conversed with them for a long time, and gave them his orders. The soldiers were to remain quietly in their quarters, and not to mingle with the revolters.

“Wait quietly for three hours, and, if you receive no message from me by that time, him bashis, you may allow the soldiers to go out and satisfy their curiosity. Now go and wait until then.”

The insurgents had again repaired to the house of the defterdar, situated on the square of the Esbekieh.

For the second time they fiercely demanded money, and called for the defterdar with such savage cries that he was compelled to show himself.

Deathly pale, and trembling in every limb, he came out upon the balcony of the second story, bowed in every direction, and begged the soldiers to listen to him. The uproar subsided for a moment. He entreated them to be patient for a few days, promising to procure money for them, to have it brought from Alexandria to meet their just demands.

“No!” cried one of the soldiers, raising his fist threateningly, “we have waited long enough, and will wait no longer! We are hungry. Pay us!”

“No!” cried another, “we will wait no longer! If the defterdar does not pay up we will tear him to pieces, and pay ourselves with his flesh!”

“Let us surround his house, and keep him prisoner until he gives us our pay!” yelled the soldiers, as they scaled the garden-wall and surrounded the house.

The terrified defterdar sent a messenger through a secret passage into the street, to convey intelligence of what had happened to the viceroy.

“Have pity on your defterdar, highness. The soldiers have broken into his house, and he is in their power. Help me! Subdue the revolt by paying the soldiers!”

Cousrouf received this intelligence with wrath.

“Are all the devils let loose? Hardly have I been compelled to liberate this insolent woman, when I am defied by rebellious soldiers. They shall be taught that I am master, and that to threaten me is to destroy themselves. Let the artillerists stand by their guns, with burning fuses, and await my orders! Let the soldiers be drawn up around the fortress with loaded muskets! And you, messenger, go back to your master, and tell him to send the rebels to me. I will give them the reception they deserve.”

The messenger returned by the same secret passage to his master, and delivered the viceroy’s message, and the delighted defterdar presented himself on the balcony once more.

“Go to the citadel, to the viceroy, he will receive you, and give you your money; I have none!”

“Allah il Allah !” cried the soldiers. “The viceroy is a great man! He will deal justly with us!”

The dense masses of rebels surged up the Muskj Street toward the citadel. They have reached their destination. There stands the citadel. But what does this mean? The gates are closed. “The viceroy has sent for us; we wish to see him to demand our pay!” Suddenly the guns of the fortress hurl their deadly contents among them. “We are betrayed! They are murdering us!” yell the infuriated rebels, drawing their ataghans, and rushing upon the Turkish soldiers who are endeavoring to drive them from the citadel, fighting them man to man. And now the three hours have elapsed, and new masses of soldiers are storming up the height! These are Mohammed Ali’s troops, now let loose! Like the others, they clamor for pay, and, like the others, they rush upon the Turkish soldiers. The revolt is now general.

Taker Pacha, as well as Mohammed Ali, hears it; but the latter remains quietly in his room. Taker Pacha, less discreet, hastens forth to suppress, or, if the prospect seems favorable, to encourage the revolt. He repairs to the citadel and sends the viceroy word that he desires an audience.

“Tell his highness I wish to restore the city to tranquillity; and, if possible, appease the soldiers.”

The messenger soon returns with a dejected look. “It is in vain, general, in vain! His highness desires no peaceful settlement. He says he will make no compromise with rebels! You are to return to your house; he says he can dispose of these rebels without any assistance!”

“Is that his opinion?” asked Taher, bowing profoundly. “The wisdom of the viceroy is inscrutable. I retire, as he commands.”

He hastily quitted the apartment, went down to his soldiers and called his bim bashis to his side.

“I was with his highness, and endeavored to settle this difficulty without further bloodshed. But he declined, and said there could be no settlement between you and him except at the cannon’s mouth, and that be would pay you with your own blood!”

The soldiers answered their general’s words with a fierce roar; when this at last subsided, he continued: “The viceroy says the defterdar is to pay you–that you must look to him. Let us do so, soldiers! Let us compel him to pay!”

“Yes, be shall pay us!” cried they; and the wild masses again rushed to the house of the defterdar.

The closed gates are torn asunder; and Taher Pacha’s Armenians and Mohammed Ali’s Albanians run with savage cries into the house.

“I have no money!” cries the defterdar, with pale, trembling lips.

“Where are your books, your accounts? We will take you, together with your books, to our general.”

“Do so, do so!” groaned the defterdar, pointing to his books. “Take me, with my books, to Taher Pacha.”

Onward the wild mass surged with their prisoner and his accounts.

They passed the house of Mohammed Ali, who stood at the window, and looked down at them with a smile of satisfaction.

“The revolt is firmly established; Taher Pacha is at its head, and we shall see how he conducts the matter.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE INSURRECTION.

From the citadel the thunder of the artillery and the fierce shouts of the people still resounded. Mohammed heard the uproar throughout the entire night. The soldiers continually pressed forward to replace their comrades shot down by the murderous volleys from the fortress.

Mohammed remained quietly in his house. True, his soldiers have joined the rebels, but who can hold him responsible, and why should he expose himself to the danger of being refused obedience should he demand it of them?

Taher Pacha thinks differently. During the night he had examined the books of the defterdar, held a prisoner in his house, and had been compelled to admit that he was innocent, and had no money with which to pay off the soldiers.

On the following morning he announced to his soldiers that the defterdar was innocent, and the viceroy alone guilty. He had accumulated and possessed money and treasure, and could pay the soldiers if he would. He had, however, determined to keep for himself all the money sent from Stamboul for the troops.

The intelligence rapidly spreads among the soldiers that Cousrouf has money, and can pay if he will.

“And pay he shall!” cries Taher Pacha. “I will march with you into his stronghold. Woe to him; he has begun this work of slaughter, and must take the consequences!”

The gates are closed and barred. What care the soldiers, encouraged by their general’s approach, for that?” The walls can be scaled!” No sooner said than done. Like cats, the first climb over the high wall, and the rest follow. The guards within are overpowered, and the gates are thrown open. And now all rush in intent on victory, and, above all, on obtaining money.

The viceroy’s khaznadar advances to meet them with a body of soldiers. Taher Pacha calls on him to surrender. The coward obeys, and lays down his arms. Cousrouf sits quietly in his apartment, little dreaming of what has taken place.

“Let them fight on; in a short time these rebels and traitors will yield, and sue for mercy. I will have their heads severed from their bodies, and sent to Stamboul as trophies of victory!”

But what does this strange noise mean?

A volley resounds from beneath Cousrouf’s windows.

A Nubian rushes into his apartment, and announces, in tones of dismay: “You are betrayed, the khaznadar has surrendered, and the rebels are storming the palace.”

Cousrouf bounds from his seat, hurls from him his chibouque, and quickly girds on his sword.

“We will hurl them back. Let Mohammed Ali come with his troops. He will vanquish them and overthrow the traitor, Taher Pacha. Right royally shall Mohammed Ali be rewarded if he comes to my assistance; and come he will. He is at least no traitor, and will never make common cause with rebels. You, my Nubians, my body-guard, my brave followers, ascend to the battlement and turn the guns upon the rebels who surround us.”

They obey his command, and their guns are soon thundering down into the ranks of the rebels.

Mohammed does not come to the viceroy’s assistance; he is ill, and has been confined to his room ever since Taher Pacha has been besieging the citadel with his soldiers. Nor will his illness permit him to leave the house now, and his servant announces to all comers and to the soldiers that the sarechsme is very, very ill.

After two days have elapsed, he asks the physician, who is feeling his pulse, in a weak voice and with an air of indifference, how matters are progressing at the citadel; whether the traitor, Taher Pacha, still presumes to besiege the viceroy in his palace, and laments his inability to fly to his master’s, assistance with his troops. When the physician tells him that the rebels had stormed the citadel, and that Cousrouf had fled, Mohammed shudders and sinks back upon his couch. Truly, he is very ill! How could this intelligence otherwise have so fearful an effect?

“Yes, Cousrouf has fled; he hoped for your assistance in vain, and was compelled to yield when it did not come. Yes, sarechsme, he fled secretly through the back gate of the citadel into the desert with his faithful body-guard and his women.”

“And Taber Pacha?” asks Mohammed, eagerly.

“Taber Pacha has proclaimed himself caimacan. On my way here I met the cadi of the sheiks going to the citadel to present the robe of fur to the caimacan, in token of their recognition.”

Loud and derisive laughter resounds from Mohammed Ali’s lips.

“Really the sarechsme is very ill, and in a fearful state of excitement! His head may be affected by it. It may become dangerous.”

The physician prescribes cooling applications for his head, and goes in person to superintend their preparation.

The door has hardly closed behind the physician, when Mohammed bounds from his bed.

“Now I am no longer il! The time for action has come!”

He calls one of his Nubian slaves.

“Hasten, my Saneb–hasten to the camp of the Mameluke beys. You will find them near Petresin, on the banks of the Nile. Seek Osman Bey Bardissi, and say to him: ‘The time has come; await, beside the great Pyramid at Gheezeh, him with whom you conversed there two weeks since; await him there with all his forces.’ Have you understood me? Repeat my words.”

The Nubian repeated what he had said, word for word.

“And now hasten away, time is precious, and my message is important.”

Hardly had the Nubian departed, when messengers came to summon Mohammed to the citadel, to Taher Pacha, the new caimacan. With a profound bow, Mohammed replies that he will immediately do himself the honor of waiting on the caimacan.

He calls his servants to his assistance, and puts on his gala uniform, mounts his splendidly-caparisoned steed, and, followed by a small body-guard of eight men, gallops through the streets to the citadel.

Taher Pacha, reclining on Cousrouf s cushions and smoking his chibouque, receives Mohammed with lively manifestations of delight.

“See what a man can make of himself, Mohammed? Here I lie, smoking Cousrouf’s chibouque on Cousrouf’s cushions!”

“I congratulate you on your magnificence, and hope you may long repose there.”

“It is to be hoped that I shall,” replied Taher Pacha. “Fortune smiles on the daring. Had you been bold enough, you might now be in my place, Mohammed Ali; but you probably shrank from incurring the risk. I acted boldly, you perceive, and mine is now the viceroy’s crown. Why did you not grasp it? you needed but to stretch forth your hand.”

“And you did grasp it. Allah was gracious to you. I dared not; it seemed too far from me. And then, I admit, my head is too small for so heavy an ornament!”

“I feel strong enough to bear this burden,” said Taher, laughing, “and now that I have it, I shall also know how to secure myself in its possession. All Cairo already recognizes me in my new dignity, and your recognition is now alone wanting, Mohammed Ali.”

“I bow in all humility before the caimacan, and shall also recognize him as viceroy as soon as an answer is received from Stamboul.”

Taher smiled graciously. “And now receive my first instructions, sarechsme. Send messengers to the Mameluke beys, I desire to make peace with them; I wish them to be my friends. We have had bloodshed enough. United with the Mamelukes, we shall be able to defy our Turkish enemies.”

“I am of the same opinion,” replied Mohammed, bowing profoundly.

“Then carry out my instructions at once.”

“Your command shall be obeyed without delay,” replied Mohammed, as he turned and left the apartment.

“He does not know what he is doing. It would have been dangerous for me to send a messenger to the Mamelukes. Now, in his assumed authority, he empowers me to do what I have long since done in my own interests. O Taher Pacha, you think yourself entitled to the throne because you have scaled the walls of the citadel; you are, however, grievously mistaken.”

After three days the messenger reached the bardissi’s camp, and delivered Mohammed’s message.

Osman Bardissi shouted with delight. “The sarechsme keeps his word, and is about to unite with us. Come, ye Mamelukes, let us march to Gheezeh to meet our ally.”

On the third day of their march the Mamelukes reach their destination, and encamp on the banks of the Nile, near Gheezeh.

Early on the following morning an officer in a glittering uniform rides into the Mameluke camp, accompanied by a small body-guard. Bardissi recognizes the officer and joyously greets him, and Sheik Arnhyn, who rides at his side.

“There comes the brave sarechsme, Mohammed Ali; he keeps his word, and comes to unite his forces with ours.”

“A hearty welcome, Mohammed Ali; a hearty welcome from me, and from all of us!”

“A warm greeting to you, Bardissi!” cried Mohammed, extending his hand.

There they stood, hand-in-hand, gazing at each other thoughtfully and earnestly. The others had respectfully withdrawn.

“We are both thinking of the past, Osman Bey,” said Mohammed, with a soft smile. “You see I have not forgotten the name you impressed on my memory at Cavalla.”

“Nor have I forgotten your name, Mohammed Ali,” replied Bardissi. “The boys who defied each other at Cavalla have become men, and friends, too, have they not, Mohammed?”

“Yes, friends, too, I hope, Bardissi; and I press your hand in token of my friendship.”

“And I yours. I am your friend, and welcome you heartily to our camp. But where are your forces? We have assembled here to meet them; are they not coming?”

“They will soon come,” replied Mohammed; “my army awaits my orders. I have hastened here in the mean while to tell you that I am your faithful friend and ally. Great events have taken place in Cairo, and others are now impending. Wait a short time, and I shall probably be able to bring you the troops of the new caimacan, Taher Pacha, as well as my own. The caimacan wishes your friendship and alliance, and sends me as his messenger. But, as I have already said, I advise you to wait. The caimacan’s rule is an overbearing one, and strange events are about to take place in Cairo. I do not wish to take part in them, and have therefore come here with a small escort. My soldiers are encamped near Cairo, and await my orders to march here. I came alone to prove that I trust you, and, with your permission, will remain here with you a few days.”

“That was nobly thought and nobly done, Mohammed; you honor us more by coming alone than if you had come with all your forces,” cried Bardissi, as he embraced Mohammed.

“Now you are mine, Mohammed, and I love you with all my heart. United with you, my hero, we can defy all the Turks that may be sent over from Stamboul.”

Mohammed was right; strange events soon occurred in the palace of the caimacan at Cairo. The revolt which he had helped to excite had not yet subsided. He had turned the wild herd loose, but was now unable to manage it. The soldiers demanded their pay of the caimacan as savagely as they had demanded it of Cousrouf.

But where was the necessary money to be obtained? Money was the pretext on which he began the revolt, and now he finds himself enthroned in the palace as caimacan with empty coffers, Cousrouf having taken with him whatever treasure he possessed. He had invoked curses upon himself by endeavoring to procure money by force and extortion. What had become of the promises solemnly made to the people by the caimacan on the first day of his rule?–

“Peace and quiet shall prevail in the land, and happiness be the portion of the much-tormented inhabitants of Cairo.”

Instead of peace, he has brought upon them new discord and revolt; instead of happiness, new misery.

In order to appease the wrath of his soldiers, he caused a number of the leading citizens to be arrested, and, upon their refusal to pay the money demanded of them, several of them were stretched on the rack, and others beheaded.

Finally, nothing remained to the new caimacan but to do as Cousrouf had done, and meet the demands of his soldiers with the statement that he had no money, and could not pay them.

The savage cry of the soldiery for pay was renewed in front of the citadel day after day with increased fierceness, and at last the two bim bashis, Moussa and Ismail Aga, were sent up to the citadel to the caimacan to make a final appeal for pay on the part of the soldiers.

He received them with a proud, gloomy look, asked why they came, and how these rebellious soldiers dare approach him in such a manner. They bowed their heads, and, as they approached the caimacan, entreated him in humble tones to satisfy the just demands of the soldiers. They conjured him to do so for the sake of peace, and for his own sake. The soldiers were in a highly excited state, and disposed to adopt extreme measures.

“To adopt extreme measures!” cried Taher “How dare you address such words to me?”

“We have been sent to you by the troops, highness, and must act according to our instructions. Once more, we implore you to pay the soldiers!”

“And once more I repeat to you that I neither can nor will pay them!” cried Taker, furiously. “If the traitors dare to threaten me, I will lay their heads at their feet!”

“Then we had best begin with you!” cried the bim bashis, rushing upon him, and running him through with their ataghans. They then severed the head from the body, opened a window, and hurled it down to the soldiers, who received it with shouts of delight, and then rushed into the palace.

The caimacan’s faithful Armenians threw themselves in their way, and a murderous conflict arose on the stairway, and in all the halls and apartments of the palace. The conflict extended to all the streets of the city, and the work of slaughter was carried on all over Cairo.

Taker Pacha is dead, murdered! The magnificence of the new caimacan is at an end after a rule of scarcely twenty days. The intelligence reaches Gheezeh, where the Mamelukes are encamped, and where the sarechsme Mohammed Ali is sojourning. He smiles as he hears it.

“I told you to wait. But now I say, let us hasten to Cairo! Let messengers be sent to my troops, instructing them to march out to meet us, and the Armenians will, I think, also join us. The time has come. Let us hasten to Cairo, ye Mameluke beys!”

The camp resounds with shouts of delight, and the Mameluke beys mount their steeds, and place themselves at the head of their followers to begin the march.

Mohammed Ali also mounts his horse, but, before he turns, glances around, and sees the Bedouin sheik Arnhyn, who is about to mount his dromedary, and calls him to his side.

“Well, Arnhyn, your dromedary is here, but I miss your daughter in the palanquin!”

“She is at home in the tent awaiting my return, sarechsme!”

“In her father’s tent, still?” said Mohammed, smiling. “She has not yet followed to his tent him who has kissed her, and made her his wife?”

“No, sarechsme, she is still in her father’s tent, and there, she says, she will remain. Many fine young men have wooed her, for she has been made rich by the spoils her father gathered on the plain of Damanhour. Yes, Arnhyn will give his daughter a rich dowry, and there are wooers enough. But Butheita is a strange child! When a handsome suitor comes, and I beg her to follow him to his tent, she shakes her head, rejects his gifts, and laughs at his sweet words. ‘You are ugly!’ says she, laughing. ‘I will love only the handsomest of men, and him only will I follow to his tent.’ That is what Butheita says, sarechsme!”

“And that is what she should say,” replied Mohammed, smiling. “Bear a greeting to Butheita from me, when you return home, sheik, and tell her she is right in waiting until he comes whom she will gladly follow to his tent, and who may kiss her. Tell her to wait patiently, for Allah will surely send her the man she can love. Greet Butheita for me.”

He mounts his horse, and gallops off to where the Mameluke beys are awaiting him in order to begin their march to Cairo.

The Mameluke beys and Mohammed Ali enter Cairo in triumph. Taher Pacha’s Armenians have joined him, and, together with his Albanians, they form a magnificent corps. The delighted people of Cairo cry out to Mohammed: “Oh, give us peace, brave sarechsme! Let the day of peace at last dawn over unhappy Cairo!”

Mohammed had conferred with the leaders of the Armenians, and, with their consent, the citadel was tendered the Mameluke beys as a residence. They joyfully accepted it, and proudly took up their abode in the fortress.

Mohammed Ali, however, returned to his own house, and when he had reached the retirement of his apartment, and no one could see, he raised his arm threateningly in the direction of the citadel.

“You are in my residence, ye Mamelukes,” muttered he. “You are now the toasters of Cairo, but I swear that I will drive you out of my palace, as I drove out the viceroy, Cousrouf Pacha. I am awaiting my time. It has not yet come, but I now know that it will come!”

CHAPTER IX

VENGEANCE AT LAST.

THE Mamelukes, so often driven from Cairo, are once more enthroned in the citadel. Cairo reposes, and hopes for a long period of peace.

And it really seemed that peace had entered the city with the Mamelukes and Osman Bey. The citizens could once more pursue their daily avocations in tranquillity, and bands of disorderly soldiers no longer roamed about in the neighborhood, destroying and plundering.

Perhaps the wounds inflicted on the people by so many cruel wars would have time to heal. But no, their hopes are vain. In Cairo there is peace, for Ismail Bey, the oldest and wisest of the Mamelukes, sits enthroned in the citadel, and with him Bardissi, whom Mohammed Ali calls his friend.

In Cairo there is peace, for the Albanians and Armenians are under subjection to their sarechsme, Mohammed Ali. But, without, war raises its bloody head, and threatens Egypt with new misery.

Is not Cousrouf Pacha, the former viceroy, still in the country? Has he not fled to Upper Egypt? Have not his troops followed him there, and has not his reputation drawn many to his standard? And are there not many who refuse to submit to the Mameluke rule, and remain faithful to the flag of their master, Cousrouf Pacha, the Viceroy of Egypt?

No sooner had Cousrouf heard of the death of Taher Pacha than he started from Damietta, where he had lain encamped with his army, to return to Cairo and resume his authority.

Mohammed, informed of this advance, consulted Bardissi, and it was agreed that their united forces should march out to meet the enemy, Hassan Bey being first sent out with a body of Arabian cavalry to feel the enemy’s lines.

With united forces they now marched out, Mohammed Ali and the beys, his former enemies, side by side; the Albanians, Ottomans, and Armenians, were in front; behind them came the Mamelukes and Bedouins.

In the mean while, Cousrouf had advanced victoriously. He had driven Hassan Bey before him, and had stormed the village of Fareskour, in which the bey had fortified himself. The inhabitants were slain, and the houses sacked and destroyed by Cousrouf’s soldiers.

After this victory, the advance on Cairo seemed easier. Cousrouf, however, preferred to retreat to Damietta, having learned that a larger force was advancing to meet him. Hassan Bey had returned by hurried marches to Cairo, and demanded re-enforcements, which were given him. With these, he again advanced toward Damietta, followed by Mohammed and Bardissi with their powerful columns. With great haste, Cousrouf set about making Damietta strong enough to defy the enemy. The walls were crowned with cannon, and two guns were placed in position on the bridge that spans the Nile canal, at Damietta. A plentiful supply of provisions and munitions of war was also accumulated in the fortress.

“And now let us await the enemy. Allah and the right are with us. The grand-sultan at Stamboul has appointed me viceroy; the rebels have driven me from Cairo, but my just cause will lead me back in triumph!”

In such terms did Cousrouf speak to his soldiers to encourage them to make a gallant defence of the fortress.

But Cousrouf’s words excited little enthusiasm among his followers; the scouts sent out returned with the intelligence that the enemy was approaching in immense force.

They were advancing along the Nile, Mohammed with the infantry, Bardissi with the mounted troops. Now they were separated from the enemy by the canal only, but Cousrouf’s cannon made impassible the one bridge that united the two shores.

“Yet we must effect our passage to the other side,” said Bardissi.

“Yes, but the question is, how are we to do so?” said Mohammed.

All the bim bashis and boulouk bashis, together with the beys and their kachefs, were called together in a council of war. For a long time their deliberations were fruitless. How were they to get over without boats or bridges?

“We must ford it,” said Mohammed Ali. “There must be some place where we can venture to cross on foot. There are shallow places in the canal, I have been told; and, if some one could be found willing to incur the danger of making inquiries on the other side, in Damietta, where they are better informed on the subject, we might succeed in finding such a place.”

“I will undertake this duty,” said the kachef Youssouf, stepping forward. “I will go over to Damietta and obtain the desired information.”

“You are a brave man, Kachef Youssouf,” said Bardissi, “but consider that you risk your life, and perhaps in vain.”

“I shall, however, die in the performance of my duty! I will go over and make the attempt!”

“As you are? And do you not suppose the first sentinel on the walls of Damietta will shoot you down?”

“I shall not go as I am, Osman Bey. They will not be able to recognize in me the kachef of Bardissi and of Sitta Nefysseh.”

And he was right. He was not recognized. Disguised as a fellah, in the long blouse that hung down to his feet, entirely unarmed, a plain brown cap on his head, and carrying, suspended to a strap over his shoulder, a basket filled with watermelons, Kachef Youssouf entered the fortress of Damietta on the following morning.

He called out his fruit, and people hastened to him to purchase. The kachef chatted gayly with them in the Arabian tongue, and told them of the enemy who was approaching, but who could find no passage over the canal; and Youssouf laughed at and derided the enemy.

They quickly observed that he was a faithful servant of the viceroy, and therefore chatted with him unreservedly. Much was told the fellah of the want of the soldiers, and of the longing of the people to see the war terminated.

“If they could only get over,” said some of the people, with a sigh. “There are shallow places, here and there, where a passage would be easy.”

Youssouf’s manner was careless and indifferent, but nothing escaped him. No one read in his countenance the fearful danger to which he was exposed, and he passed the entire day strolling around in Damietta. But, when night came, he hastened to the canal, and tried the places casually mentioned during the day. He finally attempted to cross over at the place spoken of as the most shallow.

And he has succeeded! There he stands on the other bank, dripping with water, his wet blouse clinging to his person. He hastened to the camp to Bardissi, to bring the glad intelligence that there is a place where they can cross on foot to the other shore in spite of the cannon on the bridge, and of the garrison of Damietta.

“Well done, brave kachef!” cried Bardissi. “You have deserved your reward, and you shall have it! I appoint you kachef of my guard, and give you a command of one hundred Mamelukes.”

Youssouf’s countenance lighted up, and his eyes sparkled with delight. He thought of Sitta Nefysseh, and rejoiced in his successful feat, and ‘in his reward, because she would be pleased.

“O Sitta Nefysseh, when I come into your presence, and kneel down before you, will you receive me graciously, and permit me to remain with you henceforth? O Sitta Nefysseh, if the time were only come when on bended knee I can say to you: ‘Your servant has returned, but he is no longer a poor kachef! He has won laurels because you commanded him to seek them! May he now serve you again?’ Oh, that I were with you again, Sitta Nefysseh!”

On the following night they were conducted by Youssouf to the place at which he had forded the canal.

The Mameluke beys dismount and step into the water. In advance is Osman Bey, and beside him Mohammed Ali. The passage must be effected noiselessly, so as not to attract the attention of the enemy.

The water rushes past them, almost carrying their feet from under them. It already reaches their shoulders, and they can hardly retain their foothold. Kachef Youssouf must have been deceived. A wave, driven by the night-wind, rolls by and sweeps Mohammed with it.

Osman Bey sees his friend torn from his side, rushes after him, grasps him with his strong arm, and holds him securely.

“I thank you, Osman Bey, you have saved my life.”

“And I thank Allah that I was at your side and could save it.”

Finally they succeed in getting over, and now they stand on the other shore. Bardissi embraces Mohammed, and congratulates him on their safe passage. He then grasps Youssouf’s hand, and thanks him once more.

“Now, good Cousrouf, the days of your rule are numbered.”

“Yes,” murmured Mohammed to himself, “I, too, rejoice in your coming overthrow. O Allah, give us all victory, and give me vengeance!”

The passage of the troops is effected. The Albanians first rush to the bridge where the cannon are in position, cut down the gunners before they can give an alarm, and with the captured guns fire their first shots into Damietta.

The thunder of these shots arouses the enemy, who lie encamped in front of the fortress, and a bloody, fiercely-contested battle begins. But at its conclusion the allies, Bardissi and Mohammed Ali, enter Damietta in triumph. No quarter is given. They massacre all who fall into their hands; every house is sacked and then burned. On the square in front of Fort Lesbe, a column of soldiers, Cousrouf Pacha at its head, sitting proudly erect on his steed, still opposes them. He has been bravely fighting all along, fighting for life, for victory, for glory, but he has fought in vain; he prefers, however, to die at the head of his followers, than to flee, or fall into the hands of Mohammed Ali.

The enemy approaches. A ball strikes Cousrouf’s horse, and it sinks to the ground. With difficulty he succeeds in extricating himself from his fallen steed.

“Upon them, my brave soldiers!” he cries, drawing his ataghan. “Let us fight our way through to the fort. There we shall be secure.”

“You shall never reach it!” exclaims Bardissi, his uplifted sword descending upon Cousrouf’s head.

Suddenly his arm is grasped, and held as in a vise.

“Give him to me, Bardissi!” cries Mohammed.

“And you wish to save Cousrouf’s life, Mohammed?”

“Only give him to me, Bardissi, I pray you!”

Bardissi recognized in the tone in which these few words were uttered, that Mohammed’s motive in making his request was not love for Cousrouf.

“You are my prisoner,” cried Mohammed, tearing the sword from Cousrouf’s hand, and hurling it far from him. He then grasped him by the shoulders and looked him firmly in the eye. “Cousrouf Pacha, I, Mohammed Ali, make you my prisoner.”

Cousrouf makes no reply, but only gazes defiantly upon his enemy; gradually his head sinks down upon his breast. Yes, he is vanquished and a prisoner, a prisoner of his worst enemy. He could be in no worse hands than in those that now hold him. To become Mohammed Ali’s prisoner was the worst that could befall him.

And vanquished and captured he is, by this his most relentless enemy! With him are vanquished all his followers, and nothing is left of the fortress of Damietta but ashes and ruins.

The victors have decided to send Cousrouf a prisoner to Cairo, to the citadel where he once sat enthroned.

Mohammed entered the apartment in a half-burned house of Damietta in which Cousrouf was confined. None else is in the room. Without, the sentinel is pacing to and fro, and in an adjoining room lie two Nubian slaves who have remained faithful to their master, wounded and exhausted by loss of blood.

Cousrouf sees Mohammed enter, and a groan escapes his breast; involuntarily he carries his hand to his belt. He is unarmed! He cannot hurl himself upon him, and in his downfall destroy him also.

Mohammed stands before him, armed, his eyes fixed on him in a hard, cruel gaze. Cousrouf feels this, glance, and knows that his enemy rejoices in his humiliation. For a long time no word is spoken. At last Cousrouf raises his eyes and endeavors to look his enemy in the face; but he cannot. So terrible, so threatening is his expression, that Cousrouf shudders. It seems to him at this moment that an avenging angel stands before him; and the viceroy, usually so haughty and overbearing, feels humiliated and helpless.

“Cousrouf Pacha,” said Mohammed, after a long pause, “look at me! I have long worn a mask; you placed it on my countenance, and I allowed you to do so, and awaited my time. Cousrouf Pacha, raise your eyes and look at me! I no longer wear a mask!”

Cousrouf looked up at him, and now his glance was firm, and his countenance composed.

” I see, Mohammed Ali, sarechsme by my grace, I see that you now wear a mask. He who now stands before me is hardly a human being, but the mere embodiment of hatred–envy and hatred personified.”

“You mistake, Cousrouf,” replied Mohammed in haughty tones. “Not envy and hatred, but vengeance personified. Cousrouf, I have awaited this hour for thirteen years. Am I not to enjoy it now? Do you think I would relinquish it for all the wealth and power of the world?”

“I know you would not,” replied Cousrouf, quietly. “Yet you would give all these thirteen years of falsehood and trickery, of cunning flattery; yes, you would give the miserable triumph of this hour for a single smile of the slave to whom I awarded merited punishment. Ah, Mohammed Ali, you fancied yourself the victor. I am he! This your thirst for vengeance proclaims. It tells me that the wound in your heart still burns. And who gave you this wound? I, Cousrouf Pacha, and therefore do you seek vengeance on me. The wound still bleeds, and I am triumphant! Yes, I am the victor. You should see your own countenance at this moment; now, you are not vengeance and hatred, but misery, personified. Let me in conclusion proclaim this: Masa is dead, and I slew Masa. Slay me, her murderer. But dying, I shall cry exultingly: ‘Your wound still bleeds, and I am victor! Masa is dead, here stands her slayer, slay him!'”

For a moment Mohammed was silent; a deathly pallor had overspread his countenance, and his eyes gleamed fiercely. He grasped the dagger in his girdle, drew it from its sheath, and raised it high in his right hand.

Cousrouf gazed at him with a triumphant expression.

He wished for death, he longed for it after his fearful overthrow.

Perhaps Mohammed read this in his glance. His arm sank slowly to his side, and he replaced the dagger in its sheath.

“Cousrouf Pacha, you desire death, but you shall not die. You shall live to learn that the wound in my heart no longer bleeds; that it is healed. If it were not so, by Allah, you, the murderer of Masa, were already dead! Do you hear me? I pronounce the name I have not spoken for many years the name Masa! You were her murderer, not her judge! You were not her master, she was not your slave. Her death was not lawful; you could not condemn her, and therefore do I call you a common murderer. I know that murderers are slain, that blood is atoned for by blood. This punishment the heart dictates, and this punishment the law of the land prescribes. But this punishment were too mild for you, Cousrouf Pacha. I will not slay you; you shall suffer shame and humiliation; you shall drink the cup of bitterness and disgrace to the very dregs. I will take you to Cairo, and there in the citadel you shall await my last act of revenge.”

“You threaten me,” said Cousrouf, quietly.” What evil can you add to that already inflicted? I do not fear your threat, and I shall not feel humiliated at being led a prisoner into the citadel, where I once ruled your master, and where Mohammed Ali, the sarechsme by my grace, so often knelt in the dust before me. I have been vanquished in honorable warfare, and in a just cause; and though you, the victor, triumph over, I shall still remain, your lawful master!”

“Prove this to the people of Cairo; see whether you will be recognized as master there; whether those who formerly flattered you will now raise a finger to liberate you, or restore you to the throne. And when you find that they will not, then remember, Cousrouf Pacha–that, too, is a part of Mohammed Ali’s revenge–had I slain you, all your sufferings would have been at an end! But you shall live and suffer for many a long year to come! For Cousrouf Pacha caused Mohammed Ali to suffer for long years. Then suffer, Cousrouf; and, let me tell you, from this hour I shall suffer no longer–from this hour my wounds are healed, for your wounds bleed. And now go to Cairo humiliated, covered with disgrace, the prisoner of Mohammed Ali!”

CHAPTER X

THE RETURN TO CAIRO.

Joy and exultation reign in Cairo. The united forces of the Mamelukes, Albanians, and Armenians, have returned home crowned with victory. Damietta and Rosetta have fallen, and the Turks have everywhere retreated; a miserable remnant only have found safety in Alexandria, where Courschid Pacha rules.

The people throng the streets to witness the grand entrance of the victorious troops.

There, at the head of four thousand Mamelukes, surrounded by a body of beys and kachefs, comes Osman Bey Bardissi, the hero of so many battles. How sparkling his eyes, how radiant the smile with which he greets the populace that hails him with shouts of enthusiasm!

He passes by, and now come the Albanians and Armenians. At their head rides the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali; around him his bim bashis, in their glittering uniforms. But who is it that rides beside him on the splendidly-caparisoned ass–who is the man in the long green caftan, trimmed with fur, the green turban on his head adorned with its glittering crescent? He is unarmed, and yet he rides beside the sarechsme. His countenance is pale, and his lips are firmly compressed, as if to keep back a cry of rage that struggles for utterance. Who is this man? Can it be Cousrouf Pacha? Yes, it is he, the viceroy, the prisoner given to Mohammed Ali by Bardissi. In his magnanimity Mohammed had grasped Bardissi’s arm, uplifted for the deadly stroke, and had thus saved his enemy’s life. And now he generously allows the man whose life he has saved to ride into Cairo at his side. The people relate this to each other, and are loud in their praises of the sarechsme’s magnanimity.

Was it magnanimity? Ask Cousrouf, who feels that the favor shown him by his enemy is worse than death, who feels with anguish that he is merely an object of contempt, while the air resounds with the people’s enthusiastic greeting to the accursed Mohammed Ali. Him the people had never saluted thus; upon his head the sheiks and cadis had never invoked Allah’s blessing.

Now the citadel looms up before them; the sarechsme’s countenance is radiant; smilingly he turns to Cousrouf.

“I take pleasure, highness, in conducting you to the citadel. You fled in the darkness of night; I conduct you back in the broad light of day, and wish you a pleasant sojourn in your palace. I regret, however, that you are not to reside there entirely alone. The great Mameluke Bey, Ismail, now resides there, and but few apartments remain unoccupied. With these few you will therefore have to content yourself.”

“I should be contented with the smallest room, though it lay beneath the earth, could I be spared your presence, traitor! ” mutters Cousrouf.

“Spared my presence!” cries Mohammed Ali. “Consider, highness, that I alone am to amuse and entertain you. With me alone can you converse, and recall fond recollections of the past, and I shall therefore not fail to wait on your highness right often. And now, highness, ride in advance and enter the palace first, as the master should.”

He draws rein as they reach the gateway, and gives the ass on which Cousrouf is mounted a blow with the flat of his sword, that causes it to rush into the court-yard with a succession of quick bounds. The soldiers standing around laugh loudly. And this laughter makes Cousrouf’s cheeks red with shame, and sends tears to his eyes, tears of rage.

Several of Ismail Bey’s Mamelukes now approach, and lift Cousrouf from the saddle and lead him into the house. Mohammed seems to have forgotten him; let Ismail Bey take care of him. To him Mohammed intrusts the keeping of his prisoner.

“He belongs to me, Ismail, to me alone; I only intrust my prisoner to you for safe keeping.”

He is conducted to the upper chambers of the citadel; there let his thoughts prey on the memory of her he murdered, and of him who avenges her!

The houses of Cairo are adorned with carpets and flowers, and laughter and merry-making are the order of the day.

The house of Mourad’s widow also shows signs of life with-in, to- day. Sitta Nefysseh has returned to her home after a long sojourn in the house of Sheik Sadat. The doors of her house and the park-gate are again thrown open. Sitta Nefysseh is at home; she sits behind the golden lattice-work of her window and gazes out into the street. Why does her heart throb so wildly? Is Sitta Nefysseh awaiting any one?

A long array of richly-attired officers passes by. Sitta Nefysseh gazes at them intently, her heart still throbbing wildly. Suddenly she utters a low cry, and with closed eyes reels back from the window. It is he–yes, she has seen him, the young Mameluke bey, galloping toward her house on his proud steed, followed by a body of Mamelukes. She hears him stop before the door, and she knows that he is coming.

Her countenance radiant with delight, she stands with outstretched arms, as she had stood when she last saw him, and, as then, she whispers: “I love him! oh, I love him! My soul yearns for him! I would clasp him in my arms, and yet–no, it may not be! “murmurs she, interrupting herself and letting her arms sink down to her side. “No, it may not, cannot be! They would kill him! If Bardissi did not, L’Elfi would! And then my oath! O Mourad, be with me in this hour, that I may remain firm! Be strong, my heart! It may not be!”

The door opened, and a slave entered to announce that the Mameluke bey, Youssouf, was waiting at the door with his suite, and humbly begged that he might be permitted to see Sitta Nefysseh.

“Let him enter,” said she, making an effort to compose herself.” Tell my women to go into the adjoining room, and to open the door.”

Poor woman’s heart! So strong in love, and yet so weak! These women and the open door were to stand guard over her heart, and keep her from forgetting all else in his presence.

Now the door opens and Youssouf enters. It seems to her that he has grown taller. His deeds have elevated him, and his countenance is radiant with energy and courage. Yet he kneels down before her, and kisses the hem of her robe.

“Sitta Nefysseh, you bade me go, and I went. Upon my return, my first thoughts were of you. I wished to hear from your sweet lips the word welcome! Do you speak it, Sitta Nefysseh?”

“Welcome, Youssouf Bey! How beautiful that sounds–Youssouf Bey! But rise, it does not become the hero to bend the knee before a woman, before Nefyeseh.”

“I was your slave when I went, now that I have returned I am your slave still. And thus should he salute his mistress.”

He bends down. lower and kisses the gold-embroidered slipper that clasps her little foot.

“Youssouf!” she cried, in severe tones, “I command you to rise from your knees!”

“You see, I obey you, as it beseems your slave to do,” said he, springing to his feet; “and he now begs to be permitted to enter your service again.”

“My service?” said she, with an air of astonishment. “Mourad’s widow is not so proud and not of such high rank as to desire to have a troop of Mamelukes in her service. You know I liberated all my Mamelukes at my husband’s death; and how could I, who have so few servants about me, dare to take a Mameluke bey into my service? No, such honor were too great for me. You, Youssouf Bey, must go out into the world again. You will still accomplish many great deeds, and do me honor. For, when your deeds are spoken of, people will say: ‘He was once a Mameluke with Mourad Bey, and afterward the kachef of Sitta Nefysseh. It was in Mourad’s house that he grew up and became a hero.’ That suffices for me, and Sitta Nefysseh will rejoice in your renown.”

“Sitta Nefysseh!” cried he, in tones of anguish, “you drive me from you! I have done as you commanded. I went out to battle and did not seek death, because you had forbidden me to do so, but fought like a lion, and earned a name. Now that I have returned, you refuse to give me the one reward I desire. While the bullets whistled about me, amid the din of battle, I thought only of Sitta Nefysseh, who would bid me welcome when I returned home, and restore to me my place in her house. This was the only reward I sought. And now you drive me from you!”

She had listened to him in breathless suspense. It was bliss to hear his words, yet her countenance must not betray her. She slowly raised her eyes, and then gazed at him, long and fixedly.

“Youssouf Bey,” said she, “you cannot remain with me, and though it may seem hard to you to-day, to-morrow you will confess that it is impossible. Youssouf Bey was not created for such purposes. He is a hero! Without, your men await you. Return to them. Those who imagine that peace has entered the city with you are in error. There are still many laurels to be earned by Youssouf Bey on the battlefield. Go and gather them!”

“They have no charms for me; I desire only to look on you, to love you, Sitta Nefysseh! To remain with you and dream of bliss, and perhaps–“

“Be still!” cried she, interrupting him. “Do you wish my women to hear what your folly dictates? Mourad’s widow commands you to be silent. Now you have terminated our interview. Go, join your men!”

“Forgive me, Sitta, forgive me! By Allah, I entreat you, do not deal so severely with your poor Youssouf! You are lustrous, yet also cold like the diamond! You know no mercy; for, alas, you know not love! Yet, I conjure you, be merciful; do not drive me from you; and I swear that I will speak no more of love, but only serve you as your faithful slave!”

“Let us terminate this interview,” said she, in a low voice. “I shall remain convinced that you should not stay in my house, and you will therefore go.”

“I must go!” cried he, in despairing tones, “yet others may approach you! The great Bardissi will be welcome, and L’Elfi may also come. They may speak to you of their love and adoration, but me you command to depart!”

“No, Youssouf,” cried she, “to them I shall say, depart also! I swear by Allah and by my–“

She stopped, she had almost pronounced the word that trembled on her lips. “By my love,” she had almost said, yet, with quick command of herself, she added:

“By my honor, Bardissi and L’Elfi shall visit me no more! From this day the doors of my house are closed against all men; this I swear to you, Youssouf!”

“I cannot thank you for doing so,” said Youssouf, sadly. “If no man is to cross your threshold, I also am banished from your presence, and I therefore rather entreat you to let others visit you, in order that I too may come to you sometimes.”

There was something so humble, so imploring in his voice and look, that Sitta Nefysseh’s heart was touched against her will. She could not do otherwise, she held out her hand and gave him a kindly look.

“I have sworn that no other man should cross my threshold; but you, Youssouf, you may come sometimes.”

He starts, and gazes at her intently. Her voice sounds so sweet, so changed, and his eyes sparkle with delight.

She quickly withdraws her hand and looks down. She feels that she has betrayed herself for a moment, she feels the ardent gaze that is fastened on her, and dares not look up, for fear that he may read the love that is reflected in her eyes.

“Farewell, Youssouf Bey! I tell you, you may sometimes come, but farewell for the present.”

She turns, and, without looking at him again, goes into the other room, where her women are awaiting her. With a quick movement she draws the curtain over the door; she knows that no one must see him at this moment; she knows he will fall on his knees and kiss the place where she stood. Yes, she knows this, for she loves him, and understands his heart.

And she is right! He has fallen on his knees, and, again and again, kisses the spot where she stood. Then he stretches out his arms and opens his lips to utter a sweet word. Yet, he does not pronounce it, for, if what he thinks be true, the air itself may not hear it! No, his lips utter no word! He only kisses the air she has breathed. And now can he go, for she has said that he may return!

He turns and leaves the house; his soldiers have never seen their kachef’s countenance so radiant as now. He mounts his horse, and gallops off through the streets, followed by his Mamelukes.

Sitta Nefysseh hears his horse’s hoofs ring out against the pavement, and, like him, she sinks down upon her knees, and stretches out her arms. “Youssouf, I love you! Allah be praised, I have seen you again!”

CHAPTER XI

MOHAMMED ALI AND BARDISSI.

Sitta Nefysseh was right: peace had not entered Cairo with the victorious troops. War and turmoil prevailed everywhere, and the confusion became worse each day.

The Mamelukes now ruled once more in Cairo, and, with them, Mohammed Ali, Bardissi’s beloved friend.

Ismail Bey sat enthroned in the citadel, and was the outward representative of the magnificence and grandeur of the Mamelukes, but the real rulers were Bardissi and Mohammed Ali. And these two found no pleasure in lying on soft cushions, and speaking of the deeds of the past. They longed for renewed activity, for new glory! And, even if this had not been the case, they would, nevertheless, have been compelled to draw the sword again. For the Turks were marching out from Alexandria, and many places in the south were still in their hands.

Mohammed and Bardissi’s united forces march out to a succession of conflicts, ever returning to Cairo crowned with victory.

Bardissi and Mohammed are united in love and friendship, and, though the former seems to be the ruler, the latter reigns in reality. The whole city is aware of this, and those who have complaints to make, and seek redress, come not to Bardissi, but to Mohammed Ali. To him, also, come the consuls of other countries, of England and France, and have long and protracted interviews with him.

The object of their meetings is known to no one. Their conferences are always private, and Bardissi learns of them only what Mohammed chooses to tell him. “Does he tell him the truth?”

Bardissi is convinced that he does, and also convinced that he and Mohammed are in perfect accord with each other.

Ismail, the Mameluke chief, is of a different opinion, and often warns the magnanimous Osman Bey Bardissi.

“Be on your guard against Mohammed Ali; he has evil designs. Be on your guard!”

Bardissi shakes his head. “Do not attempt to rob me of my friend, my second self. I love him, and I know that he loves me!”

“He will lead us all to destruction, if he can!” said Ismail, solemnly. “Mohammed Ali is not the faithful friend you suppose him to be ! Unfortunately, the future will prove to you that my warning was well founded.”

Bardissi disregards the warning, and angrily affirms Mohammed’s fidelity. He can confide in his friend, and in the wisdom of his counsel. And, as before, Bardissi continues to follow Mohammed’s advice in all things.

CHAPTER XII

AGAINST THE MAMELUKES.

While the Mameluke beys, Ismail and Bardissi, were victorious at Cairo, L’Elfi Bey still lay with his followers at Nisibis. There he ruled, and there his Mamelukes robbed, plundered, and tyrannized over the inhabitants.

The governor, Courschid Pacha, was again firmly established in Alexandria, where he was assembling new forces, and preparing to march against Cairo and the Mamelukes, and also against Mohammed Ali and his Albanians and Armenians; he only awaited the sultan’s decision. He had sent to Stamboul intelligence of all that had occurred–of Cousrouf’s flight, and of his defeat and capture at Damietta.

“Who is now to be appointed viceroy?” This was the question to be decided at Stamboul.

“Do you command, O master, that our troops march against Cairo to drive out the Mamelukes, and reinstate Cousrouf as viceroy! Command, O master, and your servants will obey!”

While the Turks were awaiting an answer from Stamboul, affairs in Cairo were becoming more and more complicated, and law and order no longer reigned there. The Mamelukes were daily becoming more violent and overbearing. They roamed through the city in bands, plundering and burning, and the beys could no longer control them. Daily the sufferings of the people became greater, and their hatred of the lawless Mamelukes more intense.

Robbed and outraged as they were, they were, in addition, continually being called on to pay new taxes to their detested rulers.

The Mameluke beys, Bardissi and Ismail, need money, need it more than ever. But where are they to get it? The question is a perplexing, a tormenting one, and with dismay Bardissi submits it to his faithful friend and untiring adviser, the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali.

And it was Mohammed who continually advised the imposition of new taxes, and who was constantly engaged with Bardissi in devising new means of raising money; and the imposition of each new burden was the signal for a new cry of rage from the oppressed people. The soldiers, too, began to murmur again, and to loudly demand their long-withheld pay.

The Albanians and Armenians, subject to Mohammed Ali, were held by him in severe discipline. He did not allow his soldiers to make thieves and robbers of themselves. He threatened with instant death all who should be caught in the act. They, however, clamored all the more loudly for pay.

Mohammed listened to them quietly, and seemed to be touched by their complaints. “But,” said he, sadly, “it does not rest with me to pay you, neither can I do so. I am poor myself; I have nothing to live on but my pay, and that is withheld from me also. I therefore have, unfortunately, nothing to give my soldiers. Only the chiefs, Ismail or Bardissi, can give you your pay.”

His soldiers have understood him. They salute their sarechsme, go away, and say nothing.

Mohammed well knows where the swarm of soldiers that had stood before his house have now gone, led by their bim bashis.

They rush, their numbers increasing on the way, to the house where Bardissi resides. With loud cries they demand to speak with Bardissi himself.

He appears, and asks why they have come. The vestibule of the palace is already crowded with soldiers, and new masses are continually pouring into the court-yard. In reply to Bardissi’s question, they all cry loudly: “We have come for our pay! We want money! We are hungry! We want our pay, our money!”

“Go back to your quarters, and remain there, quietly!” cries Bardissi. “In two days you shall have your pay. Go!”

“We will wait no longer!” cries a bim bashi, and they all cry after him: “We want our money! We will not leave here until we are paid!”

They press farther and farther into the house, more and more fiercely demanding their pay. Suddenly, a loud, firm voice resounds from the court-yard: “What does this mean, soldiers? What are you doing here? How dare you force your way into the palace of the chief?”

A smile lights up Bardissi’s countenance. This is his friend Mohammed Ali. He will extricate him from his embarrassing position.

Yes, it is he, the sarechsme, at whose approach the men respectfully fall back and make room. He enters the palace and hastens to Bardissi.

“Oh, forgive me! I knew not that my soldiers had dared to come here. They also came to me and demanded their pay; I had none to give them, yet I had no idea they would go so far as to annoy you personally.”

Bardissi makes no reply. He only looks at his friend, and grasps his hand warmly.

“I thank you, Mohammed, for having come.”

“It is my duty, Bardissi,” replies he, loud enough to be understood by all his soldiers. “Yes, it is the duty of the sarechsme to be identified with his soldiers; and if, impelled by their want, they went too far, I beg for their forgiveness; but I also beg that justice be done them; and their demands are just. They are in great want, for I have forbidden them to rob and plunder. They have long waited patiently for their pay. But I beg you to give it them now, Bardissi.”

The soldiers who had heard all, cried loudly: “Long live our sarechsme! Long live Bardissi, our chief!”

“Believe me, soldiers, he will give you your pay!–Will you not, Bardissi?”

“Yes, sarechsme, your soldiers shall receive their pay. I give you my word, they shall be paid to-morrow. Come to the citadel, to my defterdar to-morrow morning, and he will pay you.”

“You have heard it, soldiers: you are to be paid to-morrow. And now go!”

But no one moved; they stood still, grumbling in low tones.

“What,” cried the sarechsme, with sparkling eyes, “you dare to remain when I have told you to go! Do you distrust the promise of Osman Bey Bardissi, and of your general? Go, I tell you! You are to be paid to-morrow. Therefore, go and wait!”

They no longer dare to defy, and quietly withdraw.

Bardissi grasps his friend’s hand again. “I thank you. You have freed me from much embarrassment; you have done me a great service. But I beg you to lend me your kindly assistance still further. Tell me where am I to get the money with which to pay the soldiers to- morrow?”

“To-morrow? Why trouble yourself about to-morrow? I will endeavor to keep the soldiers quiet for a few days, and, in the meanwhile, we will devise new plans for raising money. I know of one means that I have often thought of.”

“Name it, my friend!”

“It is dangerous.”

“Name it, nevertheless. No matter about the danger, provided I raise money.”

“Well, then,” said Mohammed, deliberately, “it seems unjust to me that our people should bear the burden of taxation alone! Why should not a tax be imposed on the Franks and Levantines also?”

“On the foreigner?” said Bardissi, with a start. “That has never been done, that I am aware of.”

“Then let it be done now for the first time. They have been allowed to accumulate wealth here, without bearing any of the burdens of government.”

“You are right: it should be done. My defterdar shall take the necessary steps at once. The Levantines and Franks shall be made to pay this very day, and your soldiers shall have the money.”

Bardissi hastily departed to give the necessary instructions.

Mohammed Ali returned slowly to his house, a complacent smile on his countenance. “Only continue in your present course, and you will soon fall into the pit I have dug for you and yours. Proceed! Your new tax will create quite a sensation!”

He was right. The new tax did create a sensation.

Bardissi’s officials flew from house to house, levying a contribution of five hundred sequins from each Frank and Levantine.

Their demands were met everywhere with violent opposition, and caused general dismay. All the consuls repaired to the citadel, to Bardissi, to protest, in the names of their respective countries, against this unexpected outrage. Bardissi turned a deaf ear to their protests and entreaties. He thought only of his empty coffers, and of the necessity of paying the soldiers on the following day. Nothing could induce him to retract his action. The collection of the tax was enforced, and the money extorted from the foreigners. The consuls, however, incensed at the outrage, and resolved not to submit to such treatment, left Cairo in a body, followed by their entire households, to repair to Alexandria to take up their residence there. But, during the night preceding their departure, the French consul had a long private conference with Mohammed Ali.

What passed at this interview no one knew. At daybreak Mohammed accompanied the consul to the door of his house, and, in taking leave of him, said in a low voice: “Only wait. The fruit is ripe and will soon fall. Tell Courschid Pacha I am working for him, and am still the sultan’s faithful servant. Though it seem otherwise, I am still working for him. Be assured, I shall act promptly when the time for action comes.”

On the following morning the defterdar gave the troops half their pay, the sum raised by the tax imposed on the foreigners not being sufficient to liquidate the whole amount. The soldiers, however, were not satisfied with receiving half their pay, and went away grumbling. This gave only temporary relief, and soon the whole army was dissatisfied, clamoring for pay and ripe for revolt.

New taxes had to be imposed, and the burden fell upon the hapless people. The tax-gatherers made their circuit again, and mercilessly collected the tax, in spite of the opposition and lamentations of the sorely-oppressed people. If they refused to pay, the amount was raised by selling their houses. The enraged, despairing people no longer grumbled, but rushed howling and crying in dense masses to the Mosque El-Ayar, declaring that they would rather die than longer endure such outrages.

The monster-rebellion-raises its head again, and the uproar of revolt rounds through all Cairo.

The cadis and sheiks hasten to the mosque to use their influence in tranquillizing the people, but in vain. The only response to their representations is, “We cannot, we will not pay more!”

The vast hall of the mosque resounds with their lamentations and cries of rage. Suddenly Mohammed Ali, followed by a few of his soldiers, appears on the threshold. In a loud voice he begs the people to disperse; in Bardissi’s name he promises that the collection of the new tax shall not be enforced. He had gone to Bardissi and entreated him to torment the people no longer, and Bardissi had yielded to his entreaties.

“Repair quietly to your homes, and fear no longer for your property. I interceded for you, and Bardissi gave me his solemn promise that the tax should not be enforced.”

The spacious mosque resounds with shouts of delight. The people cry, “Long live Mohammed Ali!” All rush forward to grasp his hand and assure him of their friendship and devotion.

Mohammed feels that he has won the people by his shrewd course. Those who meet him in the streets salute him with reverence and devotion, and call down blessings on his head. When they meet the Mameluke beys, they look down and knit their brows; they have made themselves odious to the people, and are hourly becoming more and more detested by them. The thunder-clouds are gathering rapidly on the heads of the Mameluke beys. They see the coming storm in the angry looks of those who approach them; they feel it in the solitude that surrounds them. Curses are invoked upon their heads by the people, and not blessings, as upon Mohammed Ali’s head.

Mohammed quietly prepares for the future; nothing is left to accident. No unlooked–for event must break in upon his plans, and destroy him with the rest. Let the fruit fall when ripe, and fall so deep into the abyss that no hand can pluck it thence!

The consuls have left Cairo, but after a few days the French consul returns secretly to the city, accompanied by the chief secretary of the governor, Courschid Pacha; at night and disguised, they glide stealthily through the streets of Cairo. They repair to the house of Mohammed Ali, and remain there in earnest and eager conversation with the sarechsme throughout the entire night. And again, as on the occasion of a former conference, the consul takes his departure before the dawn of day.

The governor’s secretary remains with Mohammed. He still has a document to present to him, and Mohammed’s eyes sparkle as he reads it.

“I have but one further request to make of his excellency.”

“What is it, sarechsme? I am instructed to comply with your wishes in all things.”

“I only wish to read the firman to Cousrouf myself.”

“Let it be as you desire, sarechsme. If you ask this as a reward for your faithful services, it is a petty one indeed; you are, however, I believe, soon to receive a much greater one. When Courschid enters Cairo, he will appoint you a pacha of two tails.”

Mohammed hastily averted his face, and made no reply. No one should see that the intelligence made him rejoice.

The fruit is ripe and ready to fall; the time for action has come.

On the following morning, a body of soldiers marches out and surrounds the quarter of the city in which the Mameluke beys reside.

Bardissi and Ismail have both left the citadel, and now dwell in the city. There they can live more comfortably and conveniently than up in the citadel; and the Mameluke beys are in the habit of attaching more importance to their comfort than the rest of the world. The quarter in which they reside is completely surrounded by soldiers. They do not notice it, however; these grand gentlemen are taking their ease in their palaces.

Bardissi is in his harem. He has consoled himself for Sitta Nefysseh’s cruelty and coldness; the beautiful Georgian and Circassian slaves that throng his harem well know how to make him forget the past with their songs and dances, their sweet words and soft looks.

There he lies on his cushions, gazing dreamily at their dancing.

Suddenly a shot is heard, then a second follows, and a ball strikes the wall of his house.

Bardissi bounds from his cushions, and the dance is at an end. He rushes out into the court-yard to learn the cause of the firing. The street and square are filled with soldiers, and on the opposite side of the square, in front of the arsenal, whole batteries are in position, as though a battle were to be fought.

“What does this mean? Who has led these troops against us? Are those not Albanians and Armenians?”

A loud, a fearful cry resounds from Bardissi’s lips: “Those are Mohammed Ali’s troops, and it is he who is leading them against us. It is he who has planned my destruction. Then let us also prepare for battle ourselves. They shall see that Bardissi is not so easily trapped. Let us defend ourselves in this house as in a fortress. Close all the doors and gates. Quick, ye soldiers, prepare for battle ! Ye cannoneers, do your duty!”

He calls to the cannoneers who stand by the guns crowning the wall that surrounds his house. But the cannoneers refuse to obey him.

Another loud cry escapes Bardissi’s lips. Now he understands Mohammed’s action, and knows why the troops were relieved, others sent to his palace a few days before, and why a new body-guard had been assigned him.

These are Mohammed’s men, and they now refuse obedience to Bardissi.

He now comprehends Mohammed’s whole scheme, and his heart is filled with anguish and immeasurable wrath.

“Alas! Nothing is left me but to flee. Come, my Mamelukes. Load the dromedaries with the treasure; let the women enter the carriages. Quick, we must act with the speed of lightning. You, my faithful Youssouf, you will stand by me as you stood by Mourad.”

“I will fight beside you while life lasts.”

All is now activity. The dromedaries are laden with treasure, with chests of gold and silver coins, with jewelry, Persian carpets, furs, and silken garments. The women enter the closed carriages; the eunuchs take their place beside them. Now Bardissi mounts his war- horse, beside him his best and truest friend, Youssouf, and many others of his faithful followers.

The Mamelukes now throw open the gates, and with uplifted swords, ready for the conflict, sally forth from the court-yard.

The soldiers who have surrounded the palace see with wonder the gates open, Bardissi and his followers as they rush forth, the heavily-laden dromedaries, and the carriages filled with women. The conflict begins, a fierce conflict, the musketry rattles, and carries death into the ranks of both.

Erect on his war-horse Bardissi leads the van. He fights his way through, his sword mows down the enemy like the scythe of death. Youssouf, his faithful kachef, rides beside him. Like Bardissi, he fights like a lion, and hews with his trusty sword a pathway through the enemy’s ranks. But suddenly a well-aimed ball strikes him, he reels in his saddle, and falls with a low moan to the earth, while Bardissi and his men press on.

He succeeds in fighting his way out of the city. Onward the whole train flies toward Gheezeh.

Bardissi is wounded; his right hand bleeds, and blood is streaming down his cheeks. Bardissi is wounded, yet he lives, and is saved. On they press, and now they are no longer followed.

The soldiers have still much to do in Cairo. Let Bardissi flee with his richly-laden dromedaries; let him depart from Cairo with his Mamelukes; but let him return no more.

He draws rein now that the city is behind him; he looks back, and a tear trickles down his cheek and mingles with his blood.

For whom was this tear?

He looks back toward Cairo, and murmurs: “O Mohammed, that you have betrayed me; this is bitter!”

He then turns his horse and they proceed in their flight.–Yes, there is still much work to be done in Cairo. It is not only Bardissi who has to be fought and driven out; there is Ismail, the chief of all the Mamelukes, and all the other beys. All this lordly game is to be chased and driven to bay to-day, and then there are rich spoils to be gathered. Bardissi has hardly quitted his house when the soldiers rush into it, and begin to plunder and destroy after a fashion that can hardly be surpassed by the Mamelukes themselves. The soldiers intend to pay themselves for that which