Mohammed Ali and His House An Historical Romance by L. MUHLBACH Translated from German by Chapman Coleman CONTENTS BOOK I YEARS OF YOUTH. CHAPTER I. The Sea II. Mother and Son III. Boyish Dreams IV. Premonition of Death V. The Story-teller VI. The Mamelukes VII. Dreams of the Future VIII. The Friends IX. A Soul in the Agonies of Death X. Cousrouf Pacha XI. The Revolt BOOK II PARADISE AND HELL. CHAPTER I. The Flower of Praousta II. Masa III. The First Day of Creation IV. Masa's Jewelry V. The Deliverance VI. The Flight VII. The Messenger VIII. Vanished IX. Where is she? X. The Departure XI. The Triple Oath XII. The Paradise under the Earth BOOK III THE MAMELUKES. CHAPTER I. Revenge II. All Things pass away III. The Bim Bashi IV. The Embarkation V. The Camp at Aboukir VI. The Massacre VII. Restitution VIII. The Viceroy of Egypt IX. Sitta Nefysseh X. L'Elfi Bey XI. The Council of War XII. The Abduction BOOK IV THE VICEROY. CHAPTER I. Butheita II. In the Desert III. The Agreement IV. The Revolt V. A Strong Heart VI. Persecution VII. Money! Pay! VIII. The Insurrection IX. Vengeance at Last X. The Return to Cairo XI. Mohammed Ali and Bardissi XII. Against the Mamelukes XIII. Love unto Death XIV. Courschid Pacha XV. The Tent XVI. Retribution XVII. Conclusion BOOK I YEARS OF YOUTH CHAPTER 1 THE SEA. Beautiful is the sea when it lies at rest in its sublimity, its murmuring waves gently rippling upon the beach, the sky above reflected with a soft light upon its dark bosom. Beautiful is the sea when it bears upon its surface the stately ships, as though they were rose-leaves caressingly tossed by one wave to another. Beautiful is the sea when the light barks with their red sails are borne slowly onward by the gentle breeze, the careless fishermen casting nets from the decks of their frail craft into the deep, to draw thence, for the nourishment or pleasure of man, its silent inhabitants. Beautiful it is when in the darkness of the night, relieved only by the light of the stars, and the moon just rising above the horizon, the pirates venture forth in their boats from their lairs on the coast, and glide stealthily along within the shadow of the overhanging cliffs, awaiting an opportunity to rob the fishermen of their harvest; or, united in larger numbers, to suddenly surround the stately merchantman, clamber like cats up its sides, murder the sleeping, unsuspecting crew, and put themselves in possession of the vessel. The sea has witnessed all this for centuries, has silently buried such secrets in its depths; and yet, after such nights of blood and terror, the sun has again risen in splendor over its bosom, ever presenting the same sublime spectacle. Beautiful is the sea when it lies at rest in the azure light of the skies-a very heaven on earth. But still more beautiful, more glorious, is it when it surges in its mighty wrath-a wrath compared with which the thunder of the heavens is but as the whispering of love, the raging of a storm upon the land, a mere murmur. An immeasurable monster, the sea rushes with its mighty waves upon the rock-bound coast, sends clouds of spray high into the air, telling in tones of thunder of the majesty and strength of the ocean that refuses to be fettered or conciliated. You may cultivate the arts and sciences on the land, you may bring the earth into subjection, and make it yield up its treasures; the sea has bounded in freedom since the beginning, and it will not be conquered, will not be tamed. The mind of man has learned to command all things on the land, knows the secrets of the depths of the earth, and uses them; but man is weak and powerless when he dares to command, or ventures to combat, the ocean. At its pleasure it carries ships, barks, and boats; but at its pleasure it also destroys and grinds them to dust, and you can only fold your hands and let it act its will. Today it is surging fiercely; its waves are black, and their white heads curl over upon the rock Bucephalus, that stretches far out into the bay of Contessa, pictured against the blue sky in the form of a gigantic black steed. Huddled together, at the foot of this rock, and leaning against its surface, is a group of men and boys. They are eagerly gazing out upon the water, and are perhaps speaking to each other; but no one hears what another says, for the waves are roaring, and the storm howling in the rocky caves, and the waves and storm, with their mighty chorus, drown the little human voices. The pale faces of the boys are expressive of terror and anxiety, the knit brows of the men indicate that they are expecting a disaster, and the trembling lips of the old men forebode that the next hour may bring with it some horrible event. They stand upon the beach, waiting anxiously; but the monster--the sea--regards them not, and hurls one black wave after the other in upon the cliff behind which they stand, often drenching them with spray. But these people pay no attention to this, hardly notice it; their whole soul is in their eyes, which are gazing fixedly out upon the waters. Thus they stand, these poor, weak human beings, in the presence of the grand, majestic ocean, conscious their impotence, and waiting till the monster shall graciously allow his anger to abate. For a moment the storm holds its breath; a strange, solemn stillness follows upon the roaring of the elements, and affords these people an opportunity to converse, and impart their terror and anxiety to each other. "He will not return," said one of them, with a shake of the head and a sad look. "He is lost!" sighed another. "And you boys are to blame for it!" cries a third, turning to the group who stood near the men, closely wrapped in their brown cloaks, the hoods pulled down over their eyes. "Why did you encourage him to undertake so daring a feat?" cried a fourth, pointing threateningly toward the boys. "It is not our fault, Sheik Emir," said one of them, defiantly; "he would do so." "Mohammed always was proud and haughty," exclaimed another. "We told him that a storm was coming, and that we would go home. But he wouldn't, sheik." "That is to say," said the sheik, angrily--"that is to say, you have been ridiculing the poor boy again?" "He is always so proud, and thinks himself something better than the rest of us," murmured the boy, "though he is something worse, and may some day be a beggar if--" The storm now began to rage more furiously; the waves towered higher, and threw their spray far on to the shore and high upon the rock, as though determined to make known its dread majesty to the inhabitants of the city of Cavalla, which stands with its little houses, narrow streets, and splendid mosque, on the plateau of the rock of Bucephalus. On the summit of the rock a woman is kneeling, her hands extended imploringly toward heaven; she has allowed the white veil to fall from her face, and her agonized features are exposed to view, regardless of the law that permits her to reveal her countenance in the harem only. What are the laws to her? where is the man to command her to veil her countenance? who says to her: "You belong to me, and my heart glows with jealousy when others behold you"? No one is there who could thus address her; for she is a widow, and calls nothing on earth her own, and loves nothing on earth but her son, her Mohammed Ali. She knows that he has gone out to sea in a frail skiff to cross over to the island-rock Imbro. The boys have told her of the daring feat which her son had undertaken with them. Filled with anxiety, they had come up to the widow of Ibrahim to announce that her son had refused to return with them after they had started in their fisher- boats for the island of Imbro. "I have begun it and I'll carry it out," the proud boy had replied to them. "You have ridiculed me, and think yourselves better oarsmen than I, and now you shall see that I alone shall cross over to Imbro, while you cowardly return when the storm begins to rage." This was his reply, and in their anxiety they had repeated it to his mother Khadra, telling her, at the same time, that they were innocent of her son's misdeed, and had begged him in his mother's name to return with them. There she kneels on the brow of the rock, gazing out upon the water, imploring Allah to restore her son, and conjuring the raging sea to bear back her child to the shore. The mother's entreaties are ardent, and strong is her prayer to Allah and to Nature. The ghins, the evil spirits themselves, hold their breath and flap their black wings more gently when they rustle past the spot where a mother weeps and prays for her son! But a tear drops from the eyes of the good spirits when they meet such a mother, and this tear is potent to save her child. Perhaps at this moment an agathodaemon has flown by, has seen the agonized mother, and has let fall a tear upon the waters, for at this moment they become more tranquil. Perhaps the ghins have suddenly been swept away by the whirlwind, Zeboah, for the storm is now hushed. The storm is stilled, though from time to time its mighty breath is again heard; and then it is again mute, and the waves roll in upon the shore less furiously. The sky, too, begins to grow clear. The sun looks out from between the clouds, and throws a long golden streak of light across the waves, as if to conciliate with its smile the foaming sea, and smooth its furrowed brow. Now, a single, mighty cry resounds from above, from the place where the mother is kneeling. It seems to find its echo here below on the shore where the men and boys are standing. It is a cry of joy, of ecstasy. And all hands are raised and pointed across the water to the spot where the island-rock, Imbro, must lie. It is not visible; the waves have surged over it, as they always do when the storm rages, but they know that it must lie there. And there--a black spot! It dances on the waves, and is lifted above the white spray. The sun throws its rays far out over the waters, and over the black spot. Again a shout and a cry resound on the shore and above on the plateau. Yes, it is the boat, dancing like a leaf up through the foam. The mother and the men are waiting on the shore in breathless suspense, as it approaches nearer and nearer. Yes, it is the boat in which Mohammed Ali went out to sea. Yes, it is he; he is returning! The men and boys are now rejoicing, and the poor woman has fainted away. While the mother's heart was in doubt, it throbbed violently in her breast; now that she knows her child is returning, it stands still with joy and delight. The women, who had vainly endeavored to console her, have now come to recall the mother to consciousness, and to cheer her with joyous words. "Your son returns! Allah has protected him! The ghins had no power over him, his agathodaemon watched over him! Allah be praised, Allah is great!" The boat comes on dancing over the water. The boy stands alone, no one to assist him in wielding his oar. He holds it firmly grasped in his hands, using it lustily, and steering in defiance of the waves toward the shore. And now the men hasten forward to his assistance. They throw long ropes to him, and hail their success with a shout of joy, when one of them happily falls into the boy's boat. The latter grasps the end thrown to him, and holds it firmly. The men draw the rope and thus force the boat to the shore, and, as it touches the rock, ten arms grasp it and hold it securely. With a single bound the boy leaps ashore. His face is perfectly calm; his eyes, lustrous as stars, show no traces of terror; they are fixed on the men with a kindly glance, but they darken as he turns to the boys. "You see, my boys," said he, with a calm and at the same time threatening expression, "I have won my wager! Here is the proof that I was over there. The knife that Ibrahim lost there yesterday, I bring back to him. Here it is!" He takes the knife out of his jacket, thoroughly drenched with water, and throws it down before the boys. "I have won my wager! You men are witnesses of my triumph! Each boy is bound to pay me tribute from to-day. Each one must furnish me, twice a week, with the best peaches and dates from his garden, and when we go out to the chase they must obey me, and acknowledge me to be their captain." What triumph shone in his eyes, what an expression of energy in the bearing of a boy scarcely ten years old! "That was it!" exclaimed Toussoun Aga, in a reproachful tone. "For this reason my brother's son risked his life, and caused his mother and all of us so much anxiety.--Allah forgive you! You are a wild, defiant boy." "No, uncle," cried the boy; "no, I am not wild and defiant. They ridiculed me, and said I was not as good as they, could do nothing, didn't even know how to steer a boat. And then we laid a wager, and I won my wager; and they shall pay the tribute, and acknowledge me to be their captain. I call all you men to witness that I am the captain of the boys of Cavalla." The men looked at each other, amused and astonished at the same time. He speaks like a child, and yet haughtily, like a monarch. His words are childish, and yet so full of energy. And many of them thought they could read in the book of the future that a great destiny awaited the poor boy Mohammed Ali. "He is poor, to be sure, and will have much hard fighting to do with the storms of life. May the same success he has met with against the storms of the sea to- day also attend him hereafter against the storms of life!" Toussoun Aga stretches out his hand to take that of his nephew Mohammed, to lead him to the rock above, to his mother, but the boy quickly rejects the proffered assistance. "I can ascend the rock to my mother alone; I am not weak and terrified, uncle. Go on, I will follow." And, as he says this, he crosses his hands behind his back. The rest now cry out: "Look at his hands! Look, they are bleeding!" Toussoun now takes the boy's hands in his own, against his will, and opens them. They are covered with blood, that oozes out of the raw flesh. "It is nothing," said the boy; "nothing at all. I had to hold fast to the oar, the skin stuck to it, and that made my hands bleed." The men gaze on him admiringly, and whisper to each other: "He is a hero, if he is only ten years old." And they respectfully step back, and allow the boy to pass on up the rocky path that leads to Cavalla. CHAPTER II MOTHER AND S0N. "Here he is again, Sitta Khadra. I bring your son," said Toussoun Aga, as he entered, with the boy, the hut into which some kind- hearted women had brought Mohammed's mother. "Scold the naughty youth well, and tell him what anxiety he has caused us all." Sitta Khadra, however, did not scold him, but only extended her open arms, drew her son to her bosom with a joyous cry, and kissed him tenderly. Toussoun gazed smilingly at the two, and then noiselessly left the hut. "It is best to leave them alone, that Allah only may hear what the mother says to her son," he murmured, as he returned to his own hut, where he industriously began to apply himself to making fishing- nets, with which occupation he earned his livelihood. Now that Mohammed was left alone with his mother, the boy who was always so reserved and timid in the presence of others, knelt down before her, and entreated her tenderly not to be angry with him for having made her anxious. "But you see, mother, it had to be done," said he, excitedly and imploringly at the same time, "else they would have ridiculed me again as they so often do." "How can they ridicule you, my beloved son? " murmured Khadra, regarding him tenderly; "are you not handsomer and stronger than all of these pale, weak boys? Can you not steer a boat and use a gun better than they? Are you not a man among these boys?" "Not yet, Mother Khadra; but I shall become one," said he, rising from his knees and lifting his head proudly. "Yes, I will become a man among these boys, and they shall all be my subjects. We had laid a wager, and that wager had to be won; and won for you, Mother Khadra," he added with a glad smile. "For me?" she asked, wonderingly. "How can your victory over these boys be of use to me, except that I rejoice in your greater strength?" "There is something else, mother," he replied, joyously. "They must pay a tribute, and the finest dates and peaches, and the most beautiful flowers in their gardens, are mine, two days in the week, and for three months--this was the wager. Now you have fruits and flowers. Do you remember how you complained, while we were sitting on the rock looking at the sea, that we had only this poor little hut, and no garden and no field? I said to myself, 'I'll get them for her.' And, mother, you shall have all the rest besides. Now you have fruits and flowers, but, if Allah is gracious, you shall soon have your own garden and your own house, handsomer than all the houses of Cavalla. I will build my mother a palace; she shall have slaves and servants; all shall bow down before her as before their mistress; none shall rule over her but Allah and the prophet." The mother gazed in wonder at her son's excited countenance; he seemed to her at this moment not a child, but a man, a hero. "Yes," she murmured to herself," he will make what he says come true: all that the dream announced and the prophetess foretold." "What is that you are saying, mother?" asked he. "What was that dream, what did the prophetess foretell?" She gently shook her head. "It will not be well to tell you, my son. Your heart is bold and passionate. And yet," she continued, after a moment, "it may be well that you should know it; for to the daring belongs the world, and Allah blesses those who have a passionate and earnest heart. Sit down at my side, my son, and you shall know all." "Speak, mother, speak--I am listening. How was the dream?" "It was more than twelve years ago," said the mother, thoughtfully. "At that time I was a young married woman, and was beautiful--so the people said--for I was so poor that I could not even buy myself a veil, and Allah and the prophets forgave me for going uncovered before men. Then it was that your father, the Boulouk Baschi of the police, saw me; his eye rested lovingly on the poor girl, and he did me the honor to make me his wife, and he covered my face with a veil, that no other man might henceforth see me. It was a great honor for me that Boulouk Baschi considered me worthy to be his wife, even his only wife. For he made no use of the privilege accorded by the prophet and our religion, which allows a man to conduct several women to his harem. He said the one woman of his heart should be the one woman of his house. It was a happy year, my son this first year of our married life. We were not rich, we had nothing but the salary which your father received from the tschorbadji, but it was sufficient; when we are happy we do not need much. You must know, my son, that my heart is not fixed on splendor and show; it was not my own thoughts that conjured up these proud dreams. We lived, as I have said, in quiet bliss, hoping that our happiness might soon be increased by the birth of a child, by you, my son. One circumstance only dimmed our happiness: this was your father's service. A bad service, my son! Bands of robbers infested our peninsula, and it was a dangerous calling to lie in wait for them, and follow them up into the mountains. I always trembled when your father went out with his men in pursuit of robbers, and I had good cause to tremble. Allah had implanted in my soul a foreboding of coming evil. One day, while engaged in preparing our simple repast, I heard heavy footsteps, and a subdued murmur of voices approaching. I knew that some misfortune was impending, and there was. Your father was brought in a bleeding corpse! He had followed the robbers far up into the mountains alone, his men refusing to accompany him. The robbers had surrounded and slain him, disfiguring his dear face so that I could scarcely recognize it." "What was done with the murderers?" asked Mohammed, fiercely. "Were they punished, executed?" She shook her head. "There was no one there to witness the deed, and, when your father's successor was appointed, they had probably long since crossed the sea. Their names were not even known, and your father's blood is unavenged to this day." "Mother!" exclaimed the boy, fiercely, "I will avenge my father! I swear it!" "Poor boy! You avenge him? You do not even know who his murderers were," said she, gently. "I will have vengeance on the whole world!" exclaimed the boy. "All my enemies shall suffer for his death! What did you do, mother, when you beheld my father's body? You laid your hand on his eyes, and swore to avenge him, did you not?" "No, my son. I sank down by your father's body, kissed his hand, and took leave of him whom alone I had loved. But yet, I did register one oath! I swore that henceforth I would love nothing but the child I bore under my heart--his child. I also swore that the veil with which he had covered my face should never be lifted by another man. Many a one longed to take Ibrahim Aga's widow to wife, for, talkative as love and happiness always are, he had told them of his love and his happiness, and they thought that they, too, might obtain this through me. But I rejected them, though I was poor and possessed nothing but this hut to shelter myself and my child, as yet unborn. For the sake of this child, I rallied my energies and dried my eyes. A mother who has not yet given birth should not weep; her tears would fall on the child and make its heart sick and its eyes dim, and I wished my child to see the world with his father's eyes, to begin life with his father's heart. Therefore I implored Allah to give strength and joyousness to the life that was to be devoted to my child. One night I had a strange, wondrous, and beautiful dream. On a sparkling throne I saw a man in glittering armor, his sword high uplifted, his eyes flaming, his countenance lustrous with beauty. I knew this man, although I had never seen him. His countenance was that of my Ibrahim, and yet it was another- it was his son! In my dream I was distinctly conscious that it was my son I beheld before me. He looked not at me, but out upon the world with an angry eye. At his feet thousands lay extended upon the ground in deep reverence. Far behind him I saw a strange landscape, such as I had never before beheld. On a wide, yellow waste of sand, stood towering proud and mighty structures of wondrous form, their summits glittering in the sunshine. And, strange to say, afar off, on a magnificent palace, I saw the same man I had before beheld, his sword again uplifted, and above his head shone the crescent with the three stars. All at once the man became transformed into a child that shone like an angel, and this angel stretched out its arms and flew toward me. In my dream I extended my arms toward this vision, and cried, 'My son-my son!' This cry awakened me. On the following day you were born. When I saw and greeted you with Allah's blessing, I was startled to find the child I held in my arms the same as the angel that had flown to me in my dream! Oftentimes since I have thought of this dream, and endeavored to interpret it, for the agathodaemon that watches over men, and protects them from the ghins and their evil pinions, sometimes sends dreams to the unhappy to announce to them the future. I thought my agathodaemon had sent me this dream, "One day some gypsies came to Cavalla on a ship that landed here to procure provisions. They remained here several days, and made a business of fortune-telling. I went to an old woman, said to be the greatest prophetess, held out my hand, and demanded that she should announce the future of myself and my son. The old woman gazed at me with a strange look, and said: --You wish your dream interpreted?' "This startled me, for I had rarely spoken of my dream, and the old woman could not have heard of it. She had been in Cavalla but two days, and who should have told her of the poor, obscure woman, Sitta Khadra? But this question startled me to the very soul, and it seemed to me that this woman must tell me the truth. I motioned to her to tell me my dream. She related the entire dream with every circumstance, and interpreted it." "How did she interpret it?" asked Mohammed, in breathless suspense. "She said to me: 'Your son will one day become a prince and a hero; he will see a whole nation bowed down at his feet; he will wield the sword over this people, and bring them under his yoke. Your son shall be a ruler; palaces shall be his, and among the mighty he shall be the mightiest. Destiny announced this to you through the man transformed into the angel that flew to you, and who is your son. All hail, Khadra, for you shall be the mother of the mightiest, of the master of the earth!'" "Is this true? Am I to be a prince, a mighty ruler?" asked Mohammed, in ecstasy. "I am to behold nations at my feet? Repeat it again, what did she say?" "Yes, she said this: --A prince shall he become, nations shall he behold at his feet, and the whole world shall talk of and praise him.'" "I swear to you, mother, that she shall have told the truth! I swear to you, by the spirit of my father, by Allah and by the prophets, I will make the old woman's prophecy the truth! I shall be a prince, a great ruler, and whole nations shall bow down in the dust before me. I thank you, mother, for having foretold my future, and I only implore that Allah may graciously permit my mother to live to see the fulfilment of the prophecy. Now I know what I have to do, and, when the boys ask me again what is to become of poor Mohammed, I shall tell them: --I will make of him a prince, a hero, a king.' Yes, I will speak thus to them, and thus it shall be! And with them I shall begin! These cowardly boys shall be my subjects, and woe to them if they do not pay the tribute! O mother, beautiful days are in store for you!" "My dear, foolish boy," said the mother, regarding him tenderly, "you dream of a brilliant future, but it is impossible to realize this dream. We are poor, and Fortune seldom resides with the poor." "I will make us rich!" exclaimed the boy; "yes, I will make us rich, though as yet I know not how I am to do it. But do you know who shall assist me in doing so?" "I think I do," replied the mother, smiling, "you will ask your good friend Mr. Lion?" Mohammed nodded assent. "Rightly guessed, mother! To him I shall go and ask him how to begin to become a rich man. Let me do so at once, my heart is burning to ask this question." He seized his red cap, pulled it over his brown hair, took leave of his mother, hurried into the street, and out of the poverty-stricken little suburb, toward the main thoroughfare, where the wealthy lived. He walked on, reflecting profoundly over what his mother had related, and without noticing the boys who were coming toward him. When they perceived him, they stepped aside as if ashamed to meet the boy who had excelled and conquered them, slipped into the next house, closed the door which extended only half-way up the doorway behind them, and looked out over it. "Only look at him!" they cried, derisively. "He is good for nothing. He can do nothing. What is he to become but a beggar? Who will pity him when his uncle is dead, and his mother sick and bedridden? Then he will have to serve us, and pay us tribute." They continued to laugh at him, but he walked on quietly. Their malicious words had not escaped him, but he took no notice of them. Proudly and composedly he walked on, murmuring to himself in a low voice: "They shall pay for this some day! They too are my enemies, on whom I intend to be avenged, fearfully avenged!" These thoughts were still expressed in his features as he entered the great store of the merchant Lion. Hastily he threaded his way down the narrow path that lay between the bales and barrels, toward the light that shone at the end. There stood the merchant's office. Now he hears a kindly voice welcoming him. "Behold the hero of Imbro, the daring conqueror of the sea! Welcome my hero, welcome!" He stood still, listening to these tones, a happy smile over- spreading his countenance. How beautiful it is to be thus welcomed! To be sure, as yet it is only a friendly greeting, and half in mockery, but this greeting shall one day resound from the throats of whole nations, and not in mockery. Shall they hail him, "Welcome, thou hero!" This he swears shall be, as he steps up to Mr. Lion, who extends both hands to him over his counter, and regards him tenderly. "Here again, my Mohammed! They have been speaking of you all day, and three men have already been here to tell of your heroic deed. Let me see your hands. Yes, they are torn and bleeding. Yes, my boy, I have rejoiced with you, and am proud with you for having put those boys to shame." "I thank you, sir," said he, earnestly; "yet it is not enough to conquer boys; one must also conquer men and nations!" Mr. Lion regarded him with wonder. "What is this you are saying? What are you busying your brain with now?" "With many things, sir; I desire you to help me provide for my future." "I am delighted, Mohammed," said the merchant, regarding him with a friendly smile, "I am delighted to see you thoughtful of your future. I have often scolded your mother about you; you are tall and sensible for your age, are almost a young man, and it would become you to be taking care of yourself. But both your mother and your Uncle Toussoun are spoiling you in their anxiety to strew your pathway with rose-leaves, and guard you from every hardship." "They would," said the boy, shrugging his shoulders, "if I allowed them, but I will not! I will bare my face to the storm, and walk on thorns instead of rose-leaves, in order that my feet may become hardened. Therefore, tell me, dear sir, what I am to do to provide for my future." "That is hard to tell," replied Lion, with a sigh. "For every thing a certain something is necessary, which you, unfortunately, do not possess." "And what is this something? " asked the boy, hastily "Money," replied the merchant. "It is not enough to pray to Allah, and to receive into one's soul the precepts of the Koran; one must also use one's hands industriously, and learn the precepts of worldly wisdom, and the very first of these is, 'Have money, and you can obtain all else.'" "I will have money, that I may obtain all else!" exclaimed Mohammed; "only tell me how to procure it." "That is just where the difficulty lies, you foolish boy," said the merchant, stroking his brown hair gently. "Those who rob and plunder make it much easier for themselves in the world, and I have known many a one to begin his career as a robber who, subsequently, ruled over men as a grand pacha. Yet I am confident that it is not in this manner you wish to acquire riches, but as an honest man." "Yes, as an honest man! I desire to gain honor, magnificence, and wealth, by the power of my will and my intellect." "Honor, magnificence, and wealth?" repeated Mr. Lion. "These are grand words, my boy! It will be very difficult to accomplish so much, and I can render you no assistance in doing so, yet I will take you into my business and try to make a merchant of you, if you wish it." "Merchant!" repeated the boy, thoughtfully. "I have nothing that I could sell." "Yet you can sell yourself. Do not look at me so angrily! I do not mean that you should sell yourself as a slave, but do business with your head, your work, and your good-will. Help me to wait on my customers, to sell goods, and to praise them with pleasing manners, and I will furnish you with food and clothing, and pay you monthly wages besides, which you can give to your mother." "I should have to stand behind the counter, and play the amiable to people, as I have seen you do?" "Yes, my son, that you would have to do." "I should have to listen quietly to the gossips, spread out before them the carpets, turbans, and Persian shawls; and, as I have seen you do, cover the spots with my hands and praise the goods, and then hear them scold, and bargain, and cheapen?" "Really, you will make a good merchant; I see you have learned a great deal already." "I should, when the women stroll in and seat themselves at the counter, have to wait on them humbly with coffee, and beg them to do us the honor? Should have to hear them talk about their domestic affairs, their cats, and their dogs, and appear to be delighted with the sweetness of their voices, and the lustre of their eyes?" "By your prophet, you are a finished merchant, and will make a splendid salesman!" "No, I shall not!" cried the boy. "No, sir! I love you with my whole soul, and have often observed and admired how you understand your art, but, forgive me for saying so, I cannot become a merchant! Propose something that I can do." "Very well! I will propose something else; become a writer, learn the art, understood by so few, of putting words spoken by others on paper with signs. I should be well pleased, as I need a writer. The one I have has grown old and lazy, and, though I can speak your language, I cannot write it. Yes, learn to write, and then you will be provided for permanently, for writers are rare, and--" "I will not learn it!" said the boy, interrupting him; "I will have nothing to do with the pen. I will write my name with the sword on the faces of my enemies!" "That would be a beautiful handwriting!' observed Mr. Lion, laughing. "It will, however, be some time before you can do that, and, in the mean while, I would advise you to go to old Scha-er Mehsed, the story-teller. He knows wonderful tales, and the whole history of the great Prophet Mohammed. You know, in the evenings, crowds assemble around him, and it fairly rains pennies. But Scha-er Mehsed has grown old, and hard to understand because he has lost his teeth. Go and listen to him, then take your seat on the stone and tell stories of the olden time yourself." "No, Mr. Lion, that does not suit me either. I will first do great deeds before I tell of them. Not until I have grown old shall the men and women assemble around me; then they shall hear of my deeds. But to tell of the deeds of others only, would give me no pleasure. I see nothing is left me but to become a soldier. Yes, a soldier." "I, too, believe that would be the best thing for you," said Mr. Lion, with a kindly nod of the head. "But then you must wait until you are larger and stronger, for they do not make soldiers of boys, and you are still a boy. At ten years of age one is not yet a man, my little hero. But at fifteen you will be a youth, and then you will be accepted as a soldier. And I prophesy for you a great and brilliant career as such. Until then, however, I promise to help your mother to take care of you, and, if I can serve you in any way, come to me, for you know I love you, and will gladly do what I can for you." "Until then I will be the general of the boys of Cavalla, and they shall all bow down to me, and pay me tribute." CHAPTER III BOYISH DREAMS. Since that day a great change had taken place in Mohammed Ali. He was graver and more silent, and participated less in the games of the boys. He no longer laughed and jested as he had formerly done, but he was all the more busily occupied with his gun, inherited from his father, exercising himself in shooting, and almost always hitting his mark. He also strengthened his limbs by fencing with his old uncle, who had formerly been a soldier, or by throwing himself into the sea, to struggle with the waves and allow himself to be buffeted about by them for hours. The boy prepared himself to become a man, and he did so with his whole soul, and with the whole strength of his will. He often wandered in solitude among the rocks on the heights, or lingered on the beach below; and when he would return to his mother, on such occasions, she could see reflected in his countenance the great thoughts that agitated her boy's soul. He seemed to her to grow visibly taller each day; that the boy was transforming himself into a man with wonderful rapidity. She knew that this boy would become a hero; she had seen it in the expression of his eyes while relating her dream, and she comprehended the longing which filled his soul, for her soul was strong and aspiring like his, and Mohammed had inherited his ambition and strong will from his mother Khadra. "He thinks as I should think were I a man," said Khadra to herself, as she sat on the threshold of her door regarding her son. "Neither should I be contented with our present miserable existence if I were a man. I, too, should desire to go out and struggle with the world. Alas! but I am only a poor widow, living a miserable, solitary life, awaiting the day when death shall call me, and unite me in Paradise with Ibrahim Aga, my master. But let the young eagle brood and think until his wings are grown, and then let him fly into the world out of this miserable, rocky nest. May Allah bless his purpose, and Mohammed the prophet protect him! Allah il Allah!" While the mother was praying, and looking out wistfully into the twilight, Mohammed was sitting in his rocky cave down on the shore. This was as yet his only possession, his palace! No one knew of this cave, discovered by the boy while wandering on the shore. He had crept into a narrow opening in the rock which he had observed among the cliffs, that was hardly large enough to admit of the passage of his slender body. He crept on his hands and knees, and noticed with delight that this opening widened into a cave. He went on, deeper and deeper into the darkness, when suddenly he saw a bright light overhead, and discovered that he was in a wide cave, lighted from above by a round opening as by a window. Through this opening he could view the sea, and the sky above. This cave was known to no one else, and Mohammed carefully preserved the secret of its existence. This cave was his palace! Here he could dream of the future; here, in impenetrable solitude, he could dwell with his thoughts; from here he could look up and implore counsel from the heavens above, or look down at the foaming sea beneath, and refresh his soul with its majesty. By degrees he had made this cave habitable. Who knows but it may be necessary to seek it as a refuge from pursuit and danger some day? Who knows but that he may be compelled to seek safety here some day from his enemies, or even from his friends? Whatever he could spare from the little sums of money which his mother occasionally gave him, or from the presents of Mr. Lion or his old uncle, he devoted to the purchase of bedding, or some other article of furniture of the kind used in the huts of the poor. And then at night, when no one could see him, he would creep with these things into his cave, his palace of the future. Sometimes, while sitting there dreaming, the deep-blue sky looking down upon him, the sun throwing a ray of golden light through the cave, strange visions would appear to him. The cave would transform itself into a glittering palace, and the wretched mat that lay on the ground became a luxurious silken couch, on which he reclined, smoking his tschibak, while slaves stood around in reverential attitudes, ready to do his bidding. When seated on his rickety stool--a costly possession--for it had been bought with the last remnant of his money, it seemed to him that, clothed in purple, he had mounted his throne, around which wondrous strains of melody resounded. It did not occur to him that it was the murmur of the waves beating upon the rock-bound shore without; to him they were the triumphant songs of his future greeting him, the ruler. "A ruler, a hero, a prince, he is to be," said the prophetess to his mother, and he will do what he can to fulfil this prophecy. It was with a great effort only that he could tear himself away from such ecstatic dreams; quit his hidden paradise, and go out into the world, into reality again. One cannot live on dreams; one must eat, too. But it annoys him that he is subjected to this wretched necessity of eating. "If I should have nothing to eat; if I should become so poor and miserable as to have no bread, must I then die be cause I am in the habit of eating?" he would ask himself, in angry tones. "I will learn to live without eating!" he cried, in a loud voice. For days he would wander about in the forests and among the rocks, at a distance from all human habitations, taking no food, in order that he might accustom himself to live on little. On one occasion he remained absent from his mother's hut two days and nights, and Khadra awaited his return in deathly anxiety. Will he never return; has she lost him, her only son, the hope of her future, the blessing of her existence? At last, on the third day, she sees him coming; pale and exhausted, he totters toward her, and yet his bearing is defiant, and his eye sparkles. She hurries forward with extended arms to meet him. "Where have you been, my beloved; where were you tarrying in the distance, forgetting that a mother's heart was longing for you?" He pressed his mother's hand to his lips, looking steadfastly into her eyes. "I was with my future, Mother Khadra," said he in a low voice. "I was with the days that are to come, the days when I shall stand on the palace, a man, a hero, sword in hand, at my feet a people looking up to me imploringly. You see, mother, your dream is fulfilled, the hero who stands up there has again transformed himself into your boy! He is here and greets you." "But why is my boy pale and exhausted?" asked Sitta Khadra, anxiously, as she clasped him in her arms. "I don't know!" said he, wearily. "It seems to me that my feet refuse to bear me longer, that something is drawing me upward. Let us go to the hut, mother." He grasped her arm hastily and led her away as though he were quite strong, but Khadra observed that his lips trembled, and that his face was pallid. "He looks hungry," she murmured to herself. "Yes, I see he is hungry! Buried in his thoughts, he has again forgotten to take food." She said no more, but walked hastily to the hut and led him in. "Son of my heart, I have been awaiting you," said she, with an innocent air. "I did not wish to partake of our simple supper until my son had come home. Let us sit down and eat. Allah bless our meal!" It does not escape her that his eye suddenly glitters as he looks at the bread and dates brought yesterday by the boys as his tribute. With a quick motion he stretches out his hand toward the fruit, but suddenly withdraws it, as if ashamed of himself. "It does not become children to seat themselves before their parents, and eat before they have broken bread. Eat, mother; seat yourself, and allow your son to wait on you." That he might not feel hurt, she seated herself quickly and took part of the fruit offered her. She handed him some, and now human nature conquered the spirit, and he heartily ate of the fruit and bread. "Where were you, my boy? Light of my eyes, where were you?" asked the mother. "Up there among the rocks, and below on the shore," replied he, smiling. "Where did you find food there? I know that eagles, hawks, and doves, find their food among the rocks, but for mankind there is no food there." "And I found none, Mother Khadra; I must learn to do with little, to conquer hunger, and I fought with it for two days. See how I am rewarded!--my food never tasted so deliciously before." "Eat, my boy! Allah bless your food and drink! How fortunate that I have something for your thirst, too! Uncle Toussoun Aga brought me to-day a bottle of Cyprian wine, a present from Mr. Lion. You must drink of it, my boy." He shook his head. "No, Sitta Khadra, I will not drink of the wine sent you by the noble merchant to restore your strength. Water from the well, from the spring of life, is a better drink for me. For you, the Cyprian wine, for me the spring-wine that bubbles from the rock." He took down the gourd cup from the wall, and went out and quenched his thirst with long draughts at the spring, and then returned to his mother. He was now restored to strength and vigor; the color returned to his cheeks, and his knees no longer trembled. "My eyes' delight, my Mohammed fresh and full of life again!" cried Mother Khadra. "Light of my life, I am glad to see you yourself again. But I beg you, my boy, not to make such cruel experiments on yourself. It is wholesome to harden the body, but not to abuse it, and you abuse your own handsome self when you torment yourself with hunger and thirst unnecessarily." "Not unnecessarily, Mother Khadra," he replied, shaking his head. "He, only, who knows how to practise self-denial, can enjoy. At first I couldn't understand this, now I do, and have experienced it in myself. I have practised self-denial for two days, and now I have enjoyed; and thus it shall be in the future, Sitta Khadra. I shall learn to do without, in order that I may enjoy. Do not scold me for this; do not say, with the rest, that I am an obstinate boy! I am not, mother, but I must prepare myself for the future which you have announced to me. Your dream must be realized, and therefore must I do what I am doing. Let me have my way, and remember that Allah is with me everywhere. And remember this, too, mother, that wherever I may be, I shall hear your call should you need me. If, at any time when I am not here, you should need me, you have only to step out before the door, and imitate the scream of the eagle when he hovers in the air over his nest, and announces to his brood that he is coming. You recollect hearing it when we were on the cliffs together the other day. I pointed to an eagle hovering in the air, imitated his cry, and begged you to do so too. It was not done without a purpose, mother: I wished you to learn his cry, in order that you, too, might call your brood in case of need." The mother smiled. "A strange idea! What would people think if I should step out before the door, and scream into the air in the tones of an eagle?" "Let people think what they please, mother," said he, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "What care we? They already laugh at and mock us. But a time shall come, Sitta Khadra, when they shall bow down before you, and I only implore that Allah may permit you to live to see the time when your son shall stand on the palace, and wield his sword over humanity. Why do you sigh, mother?" he asked hastily, and what he had never before observed, suddenly occurred to him; her cheeks were sunken, and her face pale. "Why do you weep, mother?" "I know not, my son. I only fear the time is yet far distant when Mohammed Ali shall stand on the palace with uplifted sword, the nations bowed down before him! I am only afraid I shall not live to see this time." "Are you ill, mother; are you ill?" cried the boy, anxiously and tenderly. He rushed to her, clasped her in his arms, and fixed his brown eyes on hers with an earnest, anxious look. "Tell me--I conjure you in the name of the prophet--tell me, are you ill, Sitta Khadra?" She forced herself to regard him with a smile. "No, light of my eyes! beloved of my soul! When I see you, I am not ill; when I see and hear you, my heart is in health and at rest, and--" "You have no disease, no pains?" asked her son, interrupting her. "Your cheeks are pale, and your lips tremble. Tell me, nothing ails you, you are quite well?" "Quite well, my beloved, and nothing ails me. All that is wanting in my poor life is the moment when you shall have become a great man, honored by men, and blessed by Allah." "Honored by men, I will become; the blessing of Allah you shall implore down upon my head, mother! You must only remain in health to see me in my grandeur. You will not pain me, mother, by falling ill, and following my father Ibrahim Aga, before you can say to him, --My dream is realized, and your son Mohammed has become a great and mighty hero,' will you? Leave me not too soon, mother; promise to remain with me on earth until the prophecy is fulfilled." "Dear boy!" said she, with a sad smile. "How can the poor child of earth promise what Allah must alone decide? We must walk as Allah directs, and submit to his will. with humility, for thus it is written in the Koran: --Before the great God who sits enthroned above the stars, bow thy head in humility; Allah determines, and man shall obey in pious submission. So must we, my boy! Man is mortal, and passes away; as the withered leaf is wafted away by the wind and perishes, so the storm wind of life seizes upon man and destroys him." "But not you, not you, mother!" cried the boy, fiercely grasping his mother's shoulders in childish anger." No, I will not believe it, and it shall not be! The storm shall not destroy you, for you must live to see your son great and mighty, that he may recompense you for your days of sorrow and suffering." "You hurt me," said his mother, gently releasing her shoulders from his grasp. Mohammed burst into tears that poured down his cheeks in streams. The mother kissed them away. "My son, pearl of my existence!--only light in life's night!--my beloved son, what would I be without you? what should I do in the dark night without the luster of this star? I kiss these eyes, son of my heart, and bless you with Allah's blessing! Be strong and brave, my son, and weep not! Leave tears to women. You are a man in spite of your thirteen years, therefore weep not; even though the worst should befall, weep not." "The worst? What does that mean, mother? You wish to prepare me, I read it in your look; you wish to prepare me for your death! If you die, I will die, too; if you die, my whole life will I bury in the sea, and--" He could speak no further, and heart-sick he bowed his head upon his mother's shoulder. "You are not yourself, poor boy," said she, gently, as she bathed his forehead with water; "you see the body still governs the mind, and long fasting has made you weak. Remember this, my boy. To keep the mind vigorous you must give the body nourishment; if you had not fasted for two days, you would not weep now. Not because you are alarmed, but because you are weak, do you weep." He understood these words of heroism; he understood that maternal love had given her strength to console him with these quiet, matter- of-fact utterances. He tenderly kissed her hands, murmuring: "Sitta Khadra, you are a heroine, and I will learn from you to be a hero." They sat in each other's embrace for a long time, silent, and yet they were speaking to each other with their thoughts and souls, and understood what soul said to soul, and heart to heart. Often, after long years, will the son still think of this hour when he sat by his mother's side, in solitude and silence, his head resting on her bosom--in his glittering palace will he still think of it? In the fulness of his magnificence, with the soul's eye, will he look into this poor, dark little chamber will he longingly think of his mother, of his first and holiest love? "Promise me, Mohammed," said she, after a long silence, "promise me that you will never fast and torture yourself so long again." "I promise you, Sitta Khadra," he replied in a low voice, "you are right; the body must be strengthened that the soul may be strong. I need a strong body that I may be able to climb the rocky pathway of life to the summit, to the eagle's eyry, far above the lowliness of life. I promise you, mother, that from this day I will no longer torture my body, but it shall be taught to defy want, and to subordinate itself to the mind. Do not scold, Mother Khadra, if I am often away from you. In solitude I learn. I converse with the invisible spirits that hover about me in the air. They teach me wondrous things, which I cannot relate to you to-day, but which help me to prepare for the future. Do not forget, mother, when I am away from you, and you need me, to call me with the eagle's cry." A faint smile trembled on her lips. "If, however, son of my heart, I should be unable to utter this cry, if my voice should be too weak to reach you-" He again regarded her with an anxious, inquiring look. "Can that be, Sitta Khadra? Do you believe your voice can become so weak?" "Be reassured, my son; I neither believe nor fear it, but yet it might be." "Yes, it might be," said he, passing his trembling hand across his brow. "I shall go to Uncle Toussoun Aga and tell him how to call me. Only promise me, mother, that, if you need me, and are not able to call yourself, you will send for uncle and tell him to do so. I could otherwise have no peace; could not attend to my work and occupation, unless I knew that you would have me called to you when you need me." "It shall be so, my son. When I need you, you shall be called, and now do not allow yourself to be disturbed in your occupations. Fly out, young eagle, out into the air, out among the rocks, and learn from heaven and earth what to do to prepare for your future." She kissed his brow and laid her hand on his head in a blessing. Mohammed kissed this hand, and then sprang to his feet and went to his old uncle Toussoun Aga. With perfect gravity he begged permission to teach him the eagle's cry, that he might be able to call him when his mother should need him. The old man looked up from the fishing-nets, at which he was working, in utter bewilderment. "What possesses you, Mohammed Ali? What an idea to take into your head, to train the old fellow who is good for nothing but to make nets for the fishermen, in which they catch the red mareles and the blue flyers--to train this old fellow to imitate the eagle and scream like the king of the air!" "And yet you must learn to cry like this same eagle, uncle!" With resistless force he drew his uncle from his mat, and almost compelled him to go up with him to the verge of the rock. High above where the cliff projects far out into the sea, there, with a serious air, Mohammed taught his uncle the eagle's cry. At first his uncle refused to imitate him and utter the cry as directed, but Mohammed regarded him with so wild and angry a look, and then entreated him in such soft and tender tones to do it for his dear mother's sake, whose call would, perhaps, be too weak to reach him, that the old man could at last no longer refuse. When he had imitated him in a loud, shrill voice, Mohammed smiled and nodded approvingly. "That will do. And if I should be ever so distant and hear this cry, I will come home to mother. But tell me, Uncle Toussoun Aga, tell me, by all that is holy, by the prophet and by the name of Allah, tell me the truth: is my mother ill?" Toussoun Aga's countenance assumed a very grave expression, and he looked down confused. "Answer me!" cried Mohammed, vehemently. "Is my mother ill? In the name of the prophet, I command you to tell me the truth!" "Do not demand it, son of my beloved brother, Ibrahim Aga," said the old man, sorrowfully. "It does not become man to pry into the mysteries of Allah. We are all in Allah's hand, and what be determines must be, and we should not attempt to look into the future." "Yet tell me--and may Allah forgive me for wishing to look into the future--is my mother ill?" "She looks pale," murmured the old man. "When she walks her breath is short, and, when she gives me her hands in greeting, I feel them burn as though fire flowed in her veins. But it may pass away, nephew. She may recover; she is still weak from her former illness; you recollect the severe fever she had? But she will recover, and for this purpose Mr. Lion sent her the strengthening wine; it will do her good, and she will get better." "Yes, she will get better," said the boy. "It is impossible she should die, for I should then be entirely alone in the world." "Entirely alone?" asked the old man, regarding him reproachfully. "As long as Toussoun Aga lives, his nephew, Mohammed Ali, is not entirely alone." Mohammed held out his hand. "Thanks, uncle." He nodded to the old man, turned away, and sprang off over the rocks with such rapid bounds that old Toussoun looked after him in amazement. "He leaps like a gazelle. Light is his step, and splendid his figure. How long will he still bless his mother's sight? how long shall my old eyes be gladdened by this young gazelle, this young eagle?" The old man bowed his head upon his breast, and two tears trickled slowly down his cheeks. CHAPTER IV PREMONITION OF DEATH. Since the day when Mohammed had first conceived a dark foreboding of his mother's insidious disease, he had become more earnest and gloomy in his disposition. The other boys avoided meeting and coming into collision with him; they paid the well-earned tribute of fruits from their parents' gardens, and assumed an almost humble demeanor in his presence. He sometimes challenged them to race or wrestle with him, but only the strongest and most active would enter into such trials with him, and he always remained the victor. They were in the habit of turning down a side street when they saw him advancing toward them, and, when they observed him among the rocks with his little gun on his shoulder, they would hide themselves behind some rocky projection and remain concealed until he had passed. But Mohammed saw them. His eye would glitter when he passed their hiding-places, and a contemptuous smile play about his lips. "The hawks fear the eagle," he would murmur to himself, "but the eagle will some day pluck out their feathers and show them that he is master." Striving to earn money to procure little luxuries for his mother, he would more rarely absent himself from home for longer periods than formerly. When the storm raged, and, the boldest fishermen feared to venture over to Imbro where their nets were laid, Mohammed would offer to go for them, provided they gave him double wages; and the fishermen, fearing that the wild waves might bear away their nets filled with the rare fish that only came up from the deep during the storm, would willingly accede to his demands. One day when the sea was roaring and foaming wildly, one of the fishermen stood upon the shore imploring Allah to save the nets he had taken to Imbro the day before, and which, assuredly filled with the rarest fish, bad perhaps already become a prey to the waves. "Why not go after them?" said a mocking voice behind him. "Go over and get your nets." The fisherman regarded the intrepid boy Mohammed, who now stood at his side, with severity. "No one would venture out in such a storm. Moreover, this is Thursday, the evil day on which the ghins, who draw men into the deep, are abroad. I must therefore lose my rich catch and the nets besides. Your old uncle, Toussoun Aga, will be well pleased, however, for it will take all I have to purchase new nets from him." "My uncle can make no nets at present," said Mohammed. "He has been ill for weeks; I therefore advise you to save those you have, as you will find it impossible to procure as good ones from anybody else." "A good piece of advice!" cried the fisherman, angrily. "But what am I to do if the storm tears my nets away?" "Try to save your nets," replied Mohammed, laughing. "What will you give me if I go over and get them and the catch of fish besides?" "You wouldn't attempt it! Look how the waves roar and open their wide jaws as if to devour you even here on the shore! You will not venture out." "I know the waves," replied the boy, "and I know your boat. It glides over the water like a nutshell, and the monsters of the deep love me and will safely bear me over to the island on their backs. I will go if you will give me what I ask." "What do you, ask?" "You shall give me half your fish. If I bring them over safely, call four of your friends; let them fairly estimate the price, and then pay me my share. Will you agree to this, Omar?" "No, I will not! This is unheard of!" cried the fisherman, angrily. "Just as you please," said Mohammed, quietly. "You would rather lose the whole, than save half, and the nets besides. Consider well that Toussoun Aga has perhaps made his last nets, and that yours were quite new, and the finest quality he ever made." "Be satisfied with a fourth part of the fish, and the bargain made," said Omar, as he looked longingly toward the island, now, as the waves had subsided somewhat, visible as a dark spot on the horizon. The boy regarded him angrily. "I am no tradesman, and will not be cheapened. Half of the fish, or I remain here." "Well, if it must be, take half, you usurer!" cried the enraged fisherman. "Where is your boat?" asked Mohammed, quietly. "Down there in the inlet. And now be quick about it, boy!" "Directly! But every thing in its order. You must first acknowledge the bargain before witnesses." "Before witnesses?" cried the enraged fisherman. "Is not Allah the witness of an honest man's promise? " "He is. But who knows but the roaring of the storm has prevented your words from ascending to his ear?" replied Mohammed, with a mocking smile. "I will bring Mr. Lion; you can repeat your words before him." Before Omar could prevent him, the boy bounded away to the merchant, and begged him to come and witness Omar's promise. The merchant willingly followed his favorite in spite of the storm and the spray which the waves tossed up to the spot where the men were standing. When he learned what was in contemplation, and when Omar had repeated his promise, the merchant shook his head resolutely. "This cannot and shall not be. You shall not drive the boy out in such weather; the sea is an open grave, as it were!" "Mr. Lion!" cried Mohammed, advancing toward him, his arms folded on his breast. "Look at me! Why do you call me a boy? Am I not taller than many of the men on our island; am I not stronger than many boys of eighteen?" "It is true," said Mr. Lion. "Though only fourteen, you are no longer a boy. I beg your pardon, Mohammed Ali, for considering your years and not your strength. But all the same, whether youth or boy, no one goes to sea in such weather." "I will show you that one does go to sea in such weather, when good wages are to be made!" exclaimed Mohammed, as he, before the merchant could prevent him, quickly ran down to the little inlet, loosened Omar's boat from its fastening, and sprang into it. He was soon out among the waves. They roar and surge around him, but what cares he? He throws himself down in the boat and holds fast with both hands. The waves alternately lift him aloft, and bury him out of sight. It is splendid sport. It is long since Mohammed has felt so well as now, when tossed in his frail skiff on the foaming deep. He shouts in exultation "Thus will I battle my life long! Thus will I ever vanquish difficulties through life! And see, the wind is favorable, and I shall get over!" What he had exultingly shouted to the waves, took place; he got safely over, found the nets in good condition, drew them ashore, and waited on the rock until the storm had somewhat subsided. Really it seemed that Sitta Khadra was right: his agathodaemon watched over him, for, sooner than usual, the tempest calmed down, and the sun broke forth from behind the clouds. It was now a comparatively easy matter for Mohammed to get back to the opposite shore where Omar was awaiting him with several of his comrades. The fisherman's face was angry and lowering. It annoyed him that he had not waited for the storm to go down, instead of making the bargain with Mohammed, for he must now keep his word and pay the boy what he had earned. This day his rich catch of fish gave Omar no pleasure. His face grew darker and darker, while the men were opening the nets and counting the fish. It was well that the shrewd boy had caused Omar to repeat his promise before a witness, and before so highly esteemed a wit ness, for the fisherman would have otherwise refused, in all probability, to share the harvest of his nets with Mohammed. He was now compelled to yield to the decision of the fishermen, who declared that the half of the fish caught were worth at least four ducats. The boy's eyes sparkled with delight as Omar reluctantly and hesitatingly drew the money from his long leather purse and handed it to him. "It will bring you no blessing!" growled the fisherman. "You are a greedy, headstrong boy; you deprive the father of a family of half his hard earnings. The ghins will pay you back for what you have swindled me out of." "I have swindled you out of nothing. I risked my life for four ducats, have earned them honestly, and it does not become you to abuse me for it before these people.--Speak yourselves, you men, am I right?" "Certainly you are right," they cried with one voice. "No; no one can abuse you for receiving your well-earned wages," said Mr. Lion, beckoning to the boy to follow him. "You must be exhausted--come with me to my home. You shall dine with me and drink a glass of wine. Your clothes are thoroughly drenched; you shall dry them at the fire." Mohammed laughed. "Wet I am, to be sure, but the fire that burns in my veins will soon dry the stuff. I will, however, gladly eat a little and drink a glass of wine with you. It was a hard fight with the sea-monsters, they seemed to roar in my ears, 'We will have you, we will pull you down!' And yet it sounded sweetly! There is no finer music than when, the sea-monsters come up from the deep and sing their wild songs." "You are a strange being," said Mr. Lion, regarding him lovingly. "I rejoice in you, and, if it were not that people would say of me that I wished to convert a Mussulman to my religion, I would gladly adopt you as my son. Tell me, if I should leave this place, would you go with me to the land of the Franks, accept my religion, and become the heir of my fortune?" "And you ask this? Say that it was a jest! For you surely could not desire that the son of his father should become a renegade! No, Mr. Lion, a Mussulman who could allow himself to be converted into a Christian dog--pardon me for having uttered this word, it was not intended for you, but--" "But only for the Christian dog!" said Mr. Lion, smiling. "Let us leave it as it is. You have offended me, and I you. Let us be friends again, and empty a glass with each other." Mohammed accompanied him to his house and ate with him and drank of the fiery Cyprian wine. After having refreshed and strengthened himself, he turned to Mr. Lion with a merry countenance: "Now to a little business matter that I have to transact with you; for, if I had not met you below, I should have come up here after you. Look at my four magnificent ducats; I should like to invest them with you." "You are a shrewd lad, and are disposed to improve your good fortune. That is right, and without so doing, one makes no progress in the world." "You shall invest them with me, and they shall bear you good interest." "Not in that way," cried Mohammed. "I have no desire to lay a grain of sand on a mountain, with the expectation that it will bear fruit, whereas it is only lost among the others. No, I wish to buy goods. You have always been kind and friendly to me, and from me you will certainly not demand as much as from the rich people of the town, or the governor." "You are right, Mohammed. You shall have the goods at the price they cost me. What will you have?" "A magnificent silk dress, and a long white veil, such as the ladies of rank wear." "See, see!" exclaimed the merchant, regarding the boy, whose eyes fairly sparkled in amazement. "You were right, Mohammed, you are no longer a boy. You are in love, and it is assuredly a bride to whom Mohammed wishes to present this love-offering?" "No, Mr. Lion, no bride, but a love-offering the articles certainly are." "Only an amorous intrigue, then?" asked the merchant, shrugging his shoulders. "You are beginning early with such things, Mohammed. Yet I am glad you are not about to affiance yourself, as is customary here at your age, with a girl ten years old, whose eyes please you, or who has a good dower; ten years later, after she has been long- veiled, and you no longer know how she looks, you marry her and take a wife to your home, whom to be sure you have often seen and often spoken to, but of whose present looks you know nothing." "If we do not like her, we send her back to her mother. There is nothing that binds us to keep the woman we do not like, and our prophet has arranged this very wisely--while you Christians must keep the woman, though you sometimes find yourselves very badly deceived. Praise to Allah, and thanks to the prophet!" "Then it is an amorous intrigue? Well, I will not demand the reason, for the young gentleman certainly knows the first law of love-- discretion," observed the merchant, with a smile. "I have no use for that law," said Mohammed, proudly. "You shall know. This love-offering is for my mother. She is the only woman I love, and she will also be the only one I shall ever love. Give me a beautiful dress, richly embroidered, and a veil adorned with golden fringe. She shall go no more to the mosque so poorly dressed. She shall be magnificently arrayed, that she may be envied by all other women. Give me something very handsome." "You shall have it, my boy. Excuse me for calling you so again, but this time it is done to show you my love for your childlike heart. Come with me to the hall. You shall select the handsomest dress, regardless of the cost." He led him to the hall in which he kept the magnificent goods from which the ladies in the harems of the Turks of rank were accustomed to select their festal dresses, and spread the beautiful goods out before Mohammed. The boy's eyes sparkled with pleasure as he beheld this costly array. He selected a magnificent piece of purple satin embroidered with silver, and an Indian veil of the finest make, adorned with fringe of real gold. It was a suit that would have delighted the daughters of the sultan at Stamboul, and it did not occur to Mohammed that it was worth at least ten times as much as he had to give for it. Mr. Lion took the four ducats with a smile, and handed him the beautiful goods wrapped in gilt-edged paper. Mohammed, proud of his bargain, took the package, and ran in breathless haste to his mother. "Here, mother, I bring you something you will like!" he cried. "Yourself?" asked Khadra, with a gentle smile. "I need nothing else." "Yes, Mother Khadra, you do need something else. You need a dress and a veil, such as the other ladies of rank wear. Do not be alarmed, mother, it is honestly acquired. There, take it, and rejoice!" He spread the costly goods out before her, expecting her to cry out with delight. But she only became sad; on her pale cheeks glowed the roses which Death bestows on those whom he is about to call to himself. "My son!" said she. "This magnificence is not for me!" "Yes, Mother Khadra, it is indeed for you. Ask the merchant, Lion; I paid for it honestly. You think, perhaps, I have not noticed that the dress in which you go to the mosque is torn and faded? You think, perhaps, I do not know that your head-dress has often been mended? I well know that it has been. I know, too, that the women laugh and say mockingly:--She has not even a Sabbath dress, and appears before Allah in the garb of a beggar!' Therefore, I rejoice at having been able to procure a new dress for you, mother. Have it made, in order that you may appear before Allah in festive attire." "No my son, it is impossible," said Khadra sadly, as Mohammed held out the costly package. "Why impossible?" cried he, excitedly. "Because it does not become the widow of Ibrahim, the poor woman, to array herself in garments of purple, gold-embroidered satin, like the ladies of rank. The women would laugh at and mock me more than ever if I should wear such magnificent garments instead of my faded dress. Neither can I wear the veil. You can preserve all this to give to your bride some day. It does not become old Sitta Khadra to adorn herself thus." "You are not old, Mother Khadra," said he, in half-tender, angry tones. "You are still young, and when you adorn yourself with these garments, there will be no handsomer woman in all Cavalla than Sitta Khadra. I beg you to put them on; but, to please me, leave the veil a little open, as the other women do, that people may see how beautiful my mother is." "This is folly, and I, am glad no one else hears your audacious words. No chaste woman opens her veil to permit the gaze of disrespectful men to fall on her, and my son Mohammed does not wish to blush for his mother. My son, take back this package to Mr. Lion. I cannot wear such clothes." "You will not take them?" said the boy, hastily seizing the package. "What my heart's warmest love offers, you reject?" "I reject it," said she, gently. "I have no need of such clothes." "Very well," cried he, defiantly. "If you do not need these clothes, I will give them to the mermaids. They, too, like fine clothes, and they will thank me more for that which I have bought with my life. Yes, I will do this!" He rushed to the door with such violence that Khadra could hardly recall him. "Where are you going, Mohammed?" "To the cliffs. What my mother despises I will throw, into the sea." "Well, if you are about to do that, it shall be as you wish," said the mother, leading him back from the door. "If the mermaids are to have these beautiful things, it is better Mother Khadra should keep them." "You promise me to wear these clothes?" said he, a smile suddenly illuminating his face. Khadra seated herself, spread out the beautiful goods, and regarded them with a mournful smile. "It looks like mockery." "No, not like mockery, but like pure love," said the boy, eagerly. "My love dresses you in purple and gold, and I wish to see Sitta Khadra the most brilliant among women." A blissful smile suffused itself over his features. But suddenly this smile disappeared, and his countenance assumed an expression of care and anxiety. At this moment he saw how pale his mother was. Her pallor contrasted strangely with the purple lustre of the goods she held in her hands. "You are not ill, Mother Khadra; you are not suffering?" said he, in the same anxious tone in which he had so often asked. "No, my son, I am not ill," said she, regarding him calmly. "When I shall some day wear this beautiful dress, and this gold- embroidered veil, you will take delight in me. Thank you, child of my heart, light of my eyes! Thank you for this, splendid present I will hold it in honor while life lasts." "I thank you for accepting it, and beg you not to be angry with me for having been so violent," said Mohammed, entreatingly, as he kissed his mother's extended hand. "Tell me once more, mother, are you well; do you feel no pain?" "I feel well, and am not suffering," said she, regarding him lovingly. 'I should gladly see you indulge yourself in one of your walks to the cliffs or mountains. It is long since you have taken one. I feel better than usual. I shall go to your sick uncle to wait on him, and when I return I shall lie down. You need not fear that I am waiting for you. Go to the mountains, beloved of my heart!" "I shall do so gladly," he cried, embracing and kissing her heartily. He then walked with hasty steps to the door of the hut, and out into the free air. CHAPTER V THE STORY-TELLER "I HAVE done work enough to day," murmured Mohammed to himself, as, after having left his mother, he walked through the dirty suburb to the stairway hewn in the rock that led down to the cliffs. "Yes, I have worked enough, and mother is well; I will therefore go to my paradise, and rest there awhile." He sprang down the stairway and walked hastily toward the cliffs. After looking cautiously around, he crept through the narrow opening in the rocks into the passage. The silence did him good, and a happy smile played about his lips. "Here I am king," he cried, loudly and joyously. "This is my realm, and I shall soon enter my throne- chamber. How have I longed for this, how glad am I!" Suddenly he stood still. "What were Mother Khadra's words?" he asked himself. "'Only he who practises self-denial can enjoy.' Have I not always said to myself that I would accustom myself to want, and learn to enjoy by denying myself that which pleases me? Have I not said that I would not walk on rose-leaves, but learn to tread on thorns, that my feet might become inured to pain? And now, like a foolish child, I am delighted at the prospect of entering my cave, my throne- chamber! 'Only he who practises self-denial can enjoy.' Remember that, Mohammed, and learn to practise self-denial; I will learn it!" he cried so loudly that his voice resounded throughout the entire cave. He turned and retraced his steps. "I would gladly have gone into my cave, would gladly have reclined on my mat, have looked up at the blue sky, and down into the beautiful, sea, that tells me such wondrous stories. Folly! I can hear stories elsewhere. Scha-er Mehsed tells stories, too, and on the whole that is more convenient than to tell them to myself." He walks on hastily, without turning once to look back at his beloved grotto, walks on into the world, to men whom he does not love, and who do not love him. He will learn to practise self-denial, and joyfully he now says to himself: "I am already learning it, and now I can also enjoy." At this moment he observed Tschorbadji Hassan, who had just turned a corner of the street, advancing, followed by his servants. When he perceived the boy, he stood still and greeted him with a gracious smile. Mohammed, his arms folded on his breast, inclined his head profoundly before the mighty man. "See, Mohammed! The splendid shot! You come at the right moment, Mohammed; I had already sent out a slave after you. Osman, my poor sick son, craves a strange repast. He has seen pigeons whirling through the air, and thinks, probably, because he knows they are not easily to be had, that there can be nothing better in the world than a roasted wild pigeon. Now, I know, Mohammed Ali, that no one can use a gun better than yourself, and it would give me great satisfaction to have you procure some of these birds for my son." "I will do it gladly, because it is for Osman," replied Mohammed. "I will bring them myself, within the hour. I beg you, gracious master, to tell your son that I am glad to be able to do something for him. I must be off after my gun." Mohammed withdraws himself with a total absence of ceremony, not waiting until Tschorbadji Hassan Bey dismisses him with a gracious wave of the hand. He flies to his mother's hut, takes down his gun from the wall, and loads it. He then climbs rapidly among the cliffs in search of the wild-pigeons for the poor sick Osman. In an hour, Mohammed returned with his game. As he walked along, carrying the four birds in his band, he said to himself with a smile: "Was it not well that I learned to deny myself a pleasure? And here I have the recompense, the enjoyment. For it is a recompense to be able to gratify a wish of dear good Osman; he was always so kind to me." He now entered the court-yard of the palace in which Tschorbadji Hassan Bey resided. An Armenian slave stood at the gate, who seemed to have been awaiting the boys. He bowed profoundly, which he had never done before, and announced that his grace Osman Bey was in the garden, and had ordered that Mohammed Ali should bring the pigeons himself, and that Tschorbadji Hassan was also there awaiting him. "Show me the way, I will follow," said Mohammed, whose tranquil countenance gave no indication that he felt flattered at the great honor of being admitted to the garden. The Armenian led the way with an air of profound respect. Proudly, his head erect, Mohammed followed him through the wide hall of the palace and into the garden. The fragrance arising from the carefully-cultivated flower-beds was delightful; the kiosks and baldachins were so charming! "Paradise must be like this," thought Mohammed, and he breathed the fragrant air with delight. But he turned his head neither to the right nor to the left, that no one might observe how wondrously beautiful everything seemed to him, and that he had never before seen any thing so magnificent. There, under the beautiful tent with the golden tassels, and the gold-glittering star--there, on a couch, reclined a pale, thin boy, and at his side, on a chair richly embroidered, sat Tschorbadji Hassan. As Mohammed now advanced with elastic step, his head erect, the two looked at him in admiration. "How splendid he looks!" murmured the pale boy. "That is health, father, and life. He is just my age, and only look at me!" The tschorbadji suppressed a sigh, and smiled gently as he looked at his son. "You are ill, my Osman. Allah will grant you speedy recovery, and then you will become strong and healthy like Mohammed Ali.--Well!" he cried to the boy who had stood still at some distance with his birds in his hand--"well, I see you have kept your word, and brought my son the wild-pigeons." "I have, and am glad that I was able to do so." replied Mohammed, as he now came nearer in obedience to the bey's request, and greeted the pale boy with a joyous smile. "Give me your hand, Mohammed," said the young boy, who had partially risen from his cushions, and was supporting himself on his elbow. Timidly, Mohammed took the boy's pale, thin hand in his own. "Tell me, Mohammed, why do you not come to see me oftener? You know how glad I always am to see you." "Master, he did not visit you, because it does not become the poor to intrude upon the rich and noble," replied Mohammed, his eyes fixed with an anxious expression on Osman's pale face. "Rich and noble!" repeated Osman, with a sigh. "You are rich, Mohammed, for you are healthy. You are noble, Mohammed; for the inhabitants of the sea and of the air must obey you. You have power, and that is nobility." The tschorbadji was displeased with these humble words of his son, and his brow became clouded. "I think you should be content with your riches and nobility, my son," said he. "Come, hand me the pigeons, Mohammed." He took the beautifully feathered birds from Mohammed's hand, looked at them, and let their feathers play in the sun light. "Yes, they are still warm; so the world goes. An hour since they disported themselves in life's sunshine. The child of man comes, sends a few shot through their bodies, and their glory is at an end. But, I thank you, Mohammed, for having so quickly complied with our wish. Here is your reward." He took two gold-pieces from his purse and handed them to the boy in his outstretched hand. Mohammed did not take them. He drew back at the words of the governor, a deep color suffusing itself over his cheeks. Osman perceived this, and motioned to him to come nearer to his couch. "Mohammed," said he, "father forgot to add for what purpose he wished to give you the money. Not for yourself. I know that your procuring these pigeons for me was an act of friendship. You have always been friendly to me, and I shall never forget what you did for me the other day." "What was it?" asked the tschorbadji, with surprise. "You know nothing of it, father. I did not mention it to you because I feared it might make you angry," replied Osman, gently. "I had had myself carried out on the rock. You know I like to rest there, in the sunlight, under the olive-tree that stretches out its limbs over the water. From that point you can look so far out over the sea. There you can see where heaven and earth unite, and strange dreams and wishes overcome over me there. The sea murmurs at my feet in such wondrous, mysterious tones, that my heart warms and my breast expands. The physician, too, had said that I should breathe the fresh air of the cliffs very often, and I had been carried out, and lay there at rest in sweet, solitary silence. I did not observe that the sky was darkening, and a storm coming on. It also escaped the notice of the two servants who had carried me out in the chair. Now that the rain already began to fall in large drops, they became alarmed, and both ran away rapidly to procure a covered palanquin, as the physician had said I must be carefully guarded against taking cold. They had hardly gone and left me alone when it began to rain harder, and I felt the large drops slowly trickling down upon me through the leaves of the olive-tree. The rain was very cold. The storm raged and tore the protecting foliage of the tree apart. Suddenly I heard footsteps. It was Mohammed Ali. He was rapidly passing by, but when he saw me lying there under the tree, alone, he came up to me, and understood the situation at a glance. In spite of my resistance, he spread his body over me, and protected me from the rain and discomfort. "When the servants arrived with the palanquin I had remained perfectly dry, while Mohammed was wet to the skin. I begged him to come with me. I begged him to accept a gift. He refused both, and cried, laughing, as he ran away to escape my further thanks: 'For me it was only a welcome bath! You it would have hurt, Osman.'" "Good, by Allah! That was well done," said the tschorbadji, with his aristocratic smile. "You served my son as an umbrella. I thank you for it, Mohammed, and will reward you. A new mantle shall be brought you, for I perceive that your own is torn and old." "I thank you, master. It is good enough for me. This mantle is an inheritance from my father. Mother preserved it for ten years, and now I wear it, and wear it with pride, as a souvenir of my father. Thanks for your kind offer." "Then take the money," said the tschorbadji. "You see I still hold it in my hand." "Thanks, master. I have no need of the money." "You must take it, Mohammed," said Osman, gently. "As I told you before, father has forgotten to add for what purpose he gives it. You are to go and hear the new scha-er, the story-teller. Do you know him already?" "No, Osman, I do not. What of this scha-er?" "I have heard him much spoken of," replied Osman, gently. "He is a rival of the old scha-er; Mehsed. You know the old one always sits in the middle of the market-place, on a stone, and tells the people stories of the olden time, and of the magnificence of the Turkish Empire. Now a new storyteller has come, from Constantinople it is said, and people say his stories are very beautiful. But he does not seat himself on a stone in the middle of the market, but in the wide hall of a store. There he has hired a corner, and there he sits. Around himself, as far as his voice reaches, he has fastened a rope to stakes, and whoever wishes to enter the circle thus formed must pay to hear his stories. I should like to do so, too, and have often entreated my father to allow me, but they say it would excite me too much, and that the air of the hall would be too close for me. Therefore, Mohammed, I beg you to go there for me, listen to the stories, and then come and repeat them to me. You see it was for this purpose father gave you the money.--Is it not so, father?" "Yes, my boy, it shall be so if you desire it. I give him the money that he may hear the new scha-er, and if it entertains and pleases you. Mohammed shall come to you and relate what he has heard." "Will you afford me this pleasure, Mohammed? I am not strong and healthy like you; I cannot climb the rocks, like you; cannot sit on the cliffs and listen to the voice of the sea and the storm; cannot, like you, enjoy the delight of taking exercise in the open air! Here I lie on my bed, and all that is good and beautiful must come to me, if I am to enjoy it. Then come to me, Mohammed Ali!" With a kindly look, he again held out his pale, attenuated hand, and Mohammed felt that warm tears were trickling down his cheeks, and that somehow he could not speak while the pale handsome boy was looking at him so entreatingly. He took Osman's hand and pressed heartily in his own. "I accept the money from Tschorbadji Hassan," said he, in low, soft tones. "I shall go and listen to the new scha-er, and, if you wish, Osman, I shall come to-morrow, and every day, to relate to you what I have heard; and it will please me if it gives you pleasure." "I thank you, Mohammed, and beg you to come to-morrow ready to relate to me.--Give me the money, father," said he, addressing his father, with a gentle smile. "I will give it to Mohammed for the scha-er." He took the money, and Mohammed willingly accepted it from him, and thanked him. "I will go to the scha-er at once, for this is his hour, I believe." He bowed hastily and slightly before the tschorbadji, but profoundly and reverentially before the poor pale boy, and rapidly walked back toward the gate, thinking not of the beautiful flowers that surrounded him, rejoicing only at being able to do something for Osman Bey, and rejoicing, too, at the prospect of listening to the scha-er. It was just the hour at which the new scha-er, the rival of old Mehsed, began to relate his stories in the hall. With an earnest, respectful air, the men and boys sat around in the wide circle on their mats, and listened, slowly moving their bodies to and fro, to what the scha-er was relating. Mohammed noiselessly entered the circle, and seating himself as close as he could in front of the scha-er, listened in breathless attention to the loud, resonant voice that told of the glories of the past "I have not come to tell you of the fatherland to-day, not of Turkish might and grandeur. Your humble servant has been proclaiming to you their wonders for the last few days," said he. "To-day I have turned my gaze toward distant worlds and kingdoms. I am about to tell you of the provinces converted into parts of our realm by the power of the sultan. Have you heard of the land that lies over there beyond the sea--the land of the Egyptians? Great is the history of this people, and from it we can learn that Allah alone is great, and that, next to him, and next to the prophet, nothing is so great as our emperor and master, our Sultan Selim, at Stamboul, on his imperishable throne. I told you yesterday of the origin of the kingdom of Egypt, and of the struggles carried on by barbarian hordes against each other. I then went on to tell you of the caliphs of Bagdad, how they had ruled in Egypt, and how they, too, were overthrown in their magnificence. Now listen. Egypt was lost to the caliphs of Bagdad; after long struggles their rule was at an end forever. A fortunate soldier, named Tokid, possessed himself of the rich and fertile kingdom that lies beyond the ocean. He held the reins of government with a strong hand, and an army of four hundred thousand men spread themselves over the whole land, like a swarm of hornets and grasshoppers, and held the trembling people in subjection. But he died, and a black slave named Kafour, took the sceptre from the hands of the dying man, and said, 'He gave it to me as to his successor.' And the four hundred thousand hornets and grasshoppers repeated these words, and the nation bowed its head and submitted to the rule of this black man. "But one man bad the courage to defy this slave. He was a descendant of the house of Ali, which could boast of being the house of the great prophet. "Mahadi Obeidallah was the name of this grandson of Ali. He was strong and mighty before Allah, and he held in his strong hand the green flag of the prophet, of his ancestor, an heir-loom in his family, as he landed from his ships with his troops, at Alexandria, the great city that lies on the shore of Africa, and belongs to the realm of Egypt. "Nothing could resist the descendant of the prophet, and Mahadi Obeidallah erected his throne in Alexandria. The conquest of Egypt, begun by him, was finished by his grandson, Moez. He brought a hundred thousand men, commanded by his vizier Jauhar, to Alexandria, and marched with them through the desert toward the great city of Fostal, which Caliph Amrou had built. "Near this great city, Jauhar founded another with splendid walls and palaces, and he called it El-Kahera--that is, the--Victorious.' Proudly, victoriously, beside the old city of Fostal, arose the new city of El-Kahera, the wondrous city! Moez sat enthroned there in the midst of his realm, and he founded in El-Kahera, the Victorious, the dynasty of the Fatimite caliphs; for Fatima, the daughter of the prophet Mohammed, had married Ali, who was the head of the house from which Moez and Jauhar descended. "The new city, El-Kahera arose quickly, and soon became the model for all that was beautiful in the arts and sciences in Egypt. The haughty Bagdad, once so mighty, sank into the dust before her. "But the Fatimites were neither wiser nor more fortunate than the Abbassites, of whom I told you yesterday, had been. The people could not love them, for the Fatimites ruled tyrannically, and knew nothing of pity and love; and the religion of the prophet, which teaches that we should love and do good to our fellow-men, they practised with their tongues only, but not in reality. They thought it sufficient to be able to call themselves descendants of the great prophet, without imitating him in his good works. "At last one of them even dared to proclaim himself the prophet. His name was Hakem. To him it did not seem enough to be the descendant of Mohammed, of our great prophet--he wished to be king and prophet himself. He desired to found a new religion, and, because the inhabitants of El-Kahera would not bow down before him in the dust, and abandon their prophet, Mohammed, for his sake, he caused the one half of the beautiful city of El-Kahera, the Victorious, to be laid in ashes, and he allowed his wild hordes to plunder and rob the other half. He rejoiced in this, and imagined Allah would be contented. He said, too, that Allah conversed with him each day, and gave him instructions with his own lips. It was for this purpose that he went daily into the mountains of Mokatan, which rise on the banks of the Nile, near the city; and there he, a second Moses, communed, as he declared, with Allah. "But one day he did not return from the mountains, and when his janizaries sought him they found him lying dead on the ground, pierced with daggers. "The Fatimites had ruled over Egypt for two hundred years. Their glory was now at an end, and Allah sent the unbelievers as a scourge to punish those who had dared to set themselves above the prophet, to punish the sons of Hakem who had declared himself to be the prophet. "The unbelievers, who called themselves Christians, came, therefore, with a cross on their arms, and a cross on their banners, conquered El-Kahera, and levied a tribute of many millions of piasters. But the Caliph Addad, a son of Hakem, called to his assistance Noureddin, the ruler of the land of Alep, who sent him a powerful army, and the army of the Christian dogs was scattered like dust before the winds. "Yet Addad reaped no blessing from the assistance thus called to his side--the son was to be punished for the misdeeds and tyranny of his father Hakem. A strong and mighty man had come with Noureddin's army; he made himself Addad's vizier, their commander-in-chief, and Addad died of mortification. Saladin the son of Ayoub, assumed his place, and became the ruler of Egypt, and founded the dynasty of the Ayoubites." CHAPTER VI THE MAMELUKES. The scha-er paused a moment, and directed a glance of his wild black eyes at the audience surrounding him. The men regarded him with profound gravity, and nodded their heads in approval, and requested him to proceed. Rejoicing at his success, he continued in a loud voice: "But the rule of the Ayoubites did not last long; it was even more brief than that of the Fatimites. "The reign of the ten sultans distinguished the short and glorious history of their house, which, above all, loved show and splendor. The palaces of these proud rulers of El-Kahera were crowded with servants and slaves. "It was at this time that the Mogul, Genghis Khan, assembled all the Tartar hordes of his land under his banner. They followed him to the banks of the Tigris, and nothing but terror and desolation, ashes and bones, were found where they had passed. Burning and destroying, they marched to the banks of the Caspian Sea. Lamentations, followed, and numberless corpses encumbered the track of his army. At last, weary of their bloody work, the Mongols stopped to rest in beautiful Circassia. "Here they purchased slaves for their masters. One Ayoubite alone purchased twelve thousand young men: with them he repaired to Asia Minor, where he dressed them in rich, glittering garments, and called them his Mamelukes, that is, 'those he had acquired and paid for.' And now, listen, ye men of Cavalla, in this manner there arose in history a new tribe, a new race, and it gave itself the name of Mamelukes. Even the sultan formed for his service a corps out of their race; they became mighty and valiant, increased from generation to generation, and before them rulers trembled. Yes, even the Sultan at Stamboul feared their might. "The Mamelukes, however, dethroned the last Ayoubite, the one who had purchased them. The Mamelukes vanquished all the Christian dogs who came to the holy land to fight for what they call the holy grave. They murdered the last sultan. They then placed on the throne one of their own race, a Mameluke. And observe, ye men of Cavalla, with this begins a new era in the history of this land: the Mamelukes mount the throne, and make themselves masters of Egypt. "But upon this fearful deed, follow disorder, revolt, terror, blood, and death! I could tell you much more of the atrocities done by the Mamelukes, unheard of as yet by any of you, and such as the history of no other land can exhibit. I could relate to you the histories of all the other nations of the world, but if ye listened, ye men of Cavalla, to the history of the Mamelukes of the last century, the events of all the other lands of the world would sound to you, compared with the deeds that have been done in the land of the Egyptians since the year 620, after the birth of the great prophet Mohammed, like nursery-tales. On the grave of the prophet sat, her features shrouded in a bloody veil, the holy spirit of the history of the world, sadly recording the atrocious deeds of the cruel, implacable forty-seven tyrants who reigned on the bloody throne of El-Kahera during two hundred and sixty-three years. Seventeen of them were murdered, and eighteen of their successors dethroned. The rule of each lasting but a few moons. The tyrant was always hurled down by the tyrant. "One would have supposed that the Mamelukes would have shown more love and reverence for the princes of their own race than for foreign rulers, but the reverse was the case. The Mamelukes believed that they were under no obligation to respect a prince of their own race more than themselves. They raised their hands threateningly against every one who dared to consider himself something better than they. They considered themselves the advisers of the princes of their own race, and without their approval, these princes could undertake nothing whatever. And worse than this ambition, were the machinations and plundering of the intriguing men who surrounded the throne of the Mamelukes. Even Allah's wrath was aroused by this corruption, and the prophet grew angry. Allah punished them for their horrid deeds, and sent down famine, pestilence, and misery, upon the degraded land. The people lay in dust and ashes. In their despair they wrung their hands, and implored Allah to rescue them from this misery and torment. "At last, after two and a half centuries, Allah sent them relief through the Ottomans. "They could not be worse than the Mamelukes; for nothing on earth could be worse; the dagger was the only law of these slaves, who called nothing their own, and had neither family ties, fatherland, nor religion. "Had they not come from Circassia? Had they not been purchased as slaves and brought to Egypt? Had they not been Christians, and were they not of Christian descent? But they had been forced, the slaves, to assume the holy religion of Mohammed. The prophet, however, does not incline his ear to enforced service. He who does not willingly lay down his faith and fidelity upon the altar can expect no blessing from Allah. The Mamelukes learned little, except to read the Koran, to handle the sword, to ride, and to be pitiless against everybody. They also learned to flatter the master who had purchased them, to bow down in the dust before him, and to be nothing for him but a mere tool that has ho honor, no thought, and no sensibility of its own. When the Mamelukes were fully matured, had become expert in using their swords, and managing their steeds, and when their chins became covered with beard, the masters who bad bought them made them freemen, and gave them the rank and title of a kachef, an officer who was to lead and command the others. The, kachef was the lieutenant of those who had not become free. They gave him a salary, or made him a confidant or assistant. When he got thus far, had become free, and been made a kachef, a career of ambition, but also of intrigue, trickery, and treason, opened itself before him. His shrewdness was irresistible, his strong arm acomplished all things. "The kachef did homage to his first master only, but, if the latter were dead, and the Mameluke had become a freeman, hey could attain to the throne through blood and murder. All the vices, with their interminable train, had made their entrance into El-Kahera. The new ruler well understood how to acquire riches, power, and respect, by force, and from a kachef he made himself bey. From the proceeds of his booty he purchased a swarm of slaves, who were compelled to follow him. He was only a military power. The Mameluke princes measured his rank and influence by the number of followers in his train when he passed through the streets of Alexandria. There were kachefs who owned a thousand slaves, and beys who possessed two thousand. By this you can judge the wealth of these Mameluke beys, for each of these servants cost them two hundred patras. But this expense was the smallest. There were, besides, the women, the beautiful Arabian horses, the splendid weapons, the Damascene blades, the glittering jewels, the costly cashmere shawls: all this belonged to the household of a Mameluke bey. The means by which he acquired all this were robbery, trickery, blood, and murder. Whatever was bad and vicious, corrupt and shameful, this the Mameluke practised without fear or hesitation. His virtue was that intrepidity, that courage, that boldness, that recoils from nothing, from no danger, from no abyss; that yields to nothing, and to which nothing is sacred. But the slaves willingly submitted to a brave master, and greeted him as a hero. "They galloped through the streets on their proud steeds, despising those who walked. When drawn up before the enemy on their war- horses, they bore down upon them boldly, and scattered them to the winds. But if the enemy were able to resist the force of their first fierce attack, they turned their horses and galloped away in wild flight. "Such was the state of things when two hundred years ago the Ottomans marched with large armies into Egypt, to combat and vanquish the haughty Mamelukes. "And now the time selected by Allah to punish the insolent race of the Mamelukes and their rulers who were seated on the throne of Egypt had come. "The nations one by one submitted to the rule of these sons of Mohammed. After protracted struggles they had established a united empire on the banks of the Bosporus, and had built the proud city of Stamboul. The son of Mohammed governed as an illustrious ruler, until at last the Christian dogs came and conquered the magnificent city, and took up their abode in the shining palaces built by the last emperors of the house of the Comnenes. In the city of Constantinople, as they have named our beautiful Stamboul, they resided. A glittering throne was erected there; but the green flag of the prophet no longer fluttered from the minarets of the mosque, which they called the 'Church of the holy Sophia.' "When the great Selim I. heard of the deeds of the Mamelukes, his zeal and his love for the prophet impelled him to restore his holy kingdom, and he marched with a mighty army into Egypt, to punish the wicked who were in arms against the prophet. He marched through Armenia, Mesopotamia, and Syria, into Egypt. Terror and lamentation were in his train; before him nations bowed down in the dust. He advanced victoriously, made himself master of Aleppo, and marched on to storm the sacred El-Kahera, which they now call Cairo. The Mamelukes defended themselves long and desperately, until they at last succumbed to superior numbers. "But tranquillity was not yet restored to Egypt; the Mameluke prince, Tournan Bey, stole into the city at midnight, and with his Mamelukes murdered the entire Turkish garrison. Filled with wrath the great Selim returned and laid siege to the city. It held out for thirteen days and nights, but after fierce struggles was at last compelled to yield. Selim punished them terribly; they were all made prisoners, and Tournan was hanged in the midst of the city. Selim entered the city as its conqueror and ruler. "You will suppose that Egypt now at last became tranquil and that the Mamelukes bowed down submissively before the great sultan, before the green flag of the prophet that floated in triumph from the citadel. So it would have been, had not those Mamelukes who had survived the fearful slaughter done among their ranks, brooded on vengeance. But I tell you, so long as there shall be one Mameluke left in the world, so long will he do battle with his sword; he is not to be vanquished, unless indeed he be trodden under foot as a venomous serpent, and destroyed forever. "The noble Selim had magnanimously omitted to do this. He allowed the Mamelukes to take the oath of fidelity, supposing they would keep it. He then made all Egypt a province of the Turkish Empire, and returned to the banks of the Bosporus. He came home, a victorious hero, covered with honor, and the whole empire received him with exultation, and peace and happiness returned with him to Stamboul. Over in Egypt, however, things were no longer looking so peaceful, although the noble Selim had been so generous to the Mamelukes that he had not only given them their lives, but also accorded them a portion of their former power. He had desired to have two powers in the government that should watch each other, and therefore the great and wise ruler ordered that twenty-four Mameluke officials should be appointed to share the government with his own Turkish officials. In the same manner as the sultan appoints a pacha, or governor, had the Mamelukes also appointed a chief. This chief was called Sheik-el-Belad, and his power was equal to that of the pacha. He had seven adjutants, the odjaklis, who commanded the seven corps of which the Mameluke army consisted. And, I say to you, the Mamelukes were more powerful in El-gahera than are the pachas in Turkish cities. Their strifes and feuds were such, that those were among the unhappiest of Egypt's days. "And now, hearken to the dreadful conclusion. I will narrate to you what has taken place in Egypt in this century. The Mamelukes overthrew the rule of the Turkish grand-sultan, under the leadership of the bloodthirsty Ali, the new bey who stood at the head of the Mamelukes. He drove out the sultan's pacha, and announced through him to Selim, 'that the Turkish rule was at an end, and that Egypt was again free, he having driven out the Turks with the edge of the sword.' And Egypt, the rebellious province, was for a time again free; that is to say, enslaved by the Mameluke Bey Ali, who attempted to extend his power further and further. He sought to form alliances even with the enemies of Selim, even with those who did not believe in the holy prophet. He even sought, with flattery and entreaties, to prevail on the grandees of the republic of Venice to furnish him with assistance against the aggressions of the Turks. He drew his sword and drove our armies even unto Mecca in Arabia, possessed himself of the holy city of Mecca, and even carried his boldness so far that he caused himself to be proclaimed Grand-Sultan of Arabia, and ruler of the two seas. "Yet the eye of Allah beholds the unjust, and punishes the wicked; and I will now give you the very latest intelligence I have received from the holy city. May it fill your heart and soul with joyous gratitude for the justice of Allah! Yes, Allah punishes the insolent. And by the hand of his favorite, of Mohammed Abou-Dahab, in whom the Grand-Sultan Ali confided, was he laid low. This slave Mohammed murdered his master, and seated himself in his place. But him, too, did Allah punish as a wrong-doer and criminal. Allah punished the treason which Mohammed had practised on his master by afflicting him with madness. Day and night he beheld before him Ali's terrible bloody shade; in horrible dreams he saw the countenance of his murdered master, and at last, amid fearful torments, he slew himself. "Do you suppose peace had now at last come? Do you suppose that Egypt now submitted to her rightful ruler, the Grand-Sultan of Stamboul? Ye men of Cavalla, hardly was Egypt released from the tyrant Ali, when three other Mameluke beys advanced to seize the vacant throne. "Mourad, Ibrahim, and Ismail, competed for the prize. Each of them aspired to be the ruler of Egypt--each of them aspired to be called Scheik-el-Belad. "Mourad and Ibrahim united themselves to rule together in brotherly love. They united their forces against Ismail, and they prevailed against him--he was overthrown and murdered, extinguished like a light that has shone but a brief day. "And now, hearken to the end, ye men of Cavalla. The Mameluke begs, Mourad and Ibrahim, have entered the golden city of El-Kahera, and have become great and mighty. They have conquered the grand-sultan, have possessed themselves of all the lands, brought all the Mamelukes into subjection, and have not rested until all Egypt has been subjugated. "And now you know, men of Cavalla, that the sons of the slaves, that Mourad and Ibrahim, rule in the holy city El-Kahera, and in all Egypt. Proudly do these Mameluke princes hold up their heads. From slaves they have become heroes, and from heroes they have become princes." CHAPTER VII DREAMS OF THE FUTURE. In breathless attention, utterly oblivious of all else, Mohammed had listened to the words of the scha-er; and long after he had concluded, and the audience begun to disperse, he still sat, his eyes widely extended, and gazing fixedly at the cushion on which the sha-er had sat, as though he were still there, relating the deeds and wonders of the Mamelukes. Suddenly the silence that surrounded him aroused him from his preoccupation. He arose and walked slowly out, still hearing the voice that related such wondrous stories of distant lands. Thoughtfully he wandered on toward the rocky pathway. He had forgotten all else: the mother on whose account he had been so anxious, the boys whom he was in the habit of regarding so contemptuously when he met them, and whom he now scarcely sees as they pass by; the cave, too, his paradise, is forgotten. He would no longer desire to return to this dark, dreary solitude. Upward, upward to the highest point of the rock, to which the name "The Ear of Bucephalus" had been given! He climbs the rocky ascent like a gazelle. Thither no one will follow him; there the eye of the prophet alone will see, and the ear of Allah alone hear him. Up there he will be alone with God and his dreams. Now he is on the summit, gazing fax out into the sea, into the infinite distance where heaven and sea unite and become one. He stretches out his arms and utters a cry of exultation that resounds through the mountains like the scream of the eagle: "Thither will I, to the land of promise and of fortune!--to the land where slaves become heroes, and heroes princes! Mother, your dream shall be realized! There I shall find palaces on whose summit I shall stand with uplifted sword, nations at my feet. To Egypt will I go. To the land of grandeur and glory, where for thousands of years the greatest and mightiest have made of themselves princes and rulers. I will become mighty; I will cultivate my mind, that it may help me to rule men. Then I will make of myself a prince before whom all other princes shall fall in the dust!" He shouts again exultingly, and the walls of the cliffs echo back his cry. He feels so happy, so free from all earthly care. He seems to float in upper air like the eagle, looking down upon the lowliness of earth beneath. As he looks out into the distance, he sees a little dark spot rise on the horizon. His eagle-eye perceives that it is a ship. As it comes nearer, it dances on the waves, and its white sails expand like the wings of a giant swan. It is a beautiful, majestic object. The young Mohammed rejoices at the spectacle, and says, in low tones, to himself; "Some day I shall possess ships, too. Some day I shall tread the deck of the great admiral's ship." The ship glides over the glittering mirror of the deep, and comes nearer and nearer, and the curious are now assembled on the shore to gaze at it; for rarely do vessels seek the rocky promontory of Bucephalus to land in the bay of Contessa. The peninsula is desolate and barren, and there is nothing here for merchant-ships but the tobacco for which this region is celebrated. A Turkish galleon comes semi-annually for the taxes which the governor has levied, to bring them to Stamboul to the coffers of the grand-sultan. But the vessel now approaching is no Turkish galleon, but a magnificent ship; and one can see on the deck, under the gold- embroidered tent, a Turk reclining on cushions. Slaves in rich attire are on their knees before him, others are behind him fanning the flies away with fans made of peacock-feathers. "Who can this great man, this stranger be?" ask the curious, who are standing on the beach, gazing fixedly at the ship that has now entered the little bay, and is steering toward the landing. Mohammed has also hurried down to the beach. To-day, while his heart and mind are filled with the narrative of the scha-er, to-day every thing seems to him so strange, so wonderful; it seems to him that he is about to receive intelligence from the world his whole being longs for so intensely, the world that is one day to lie at his feet. The ship has entered the bay, and a boat containing three Turkish gentlemen is coming from it to the shore: They haughtily step ashore, and pass by, without saluting the crowd, to the pathway that leads up to Cavalla. But the grand-looking Turk is still on deck, reclining on his cushions; the slaves are still about, filling and refilling his long chibouque, on whose golden mouth-piece brilliants are seen glittering. Mohammed's keen eyes observe all this, and he follows each movement of the aristocratic Turk with breathless attention. Thus, he thinks, will he also do some day; thus will he, too, recline on his silken cushions, surrounded by his slaves he; the prince! How would those who were standing around the boy have laughed if they could have divined Mohammed's thoughts, if they had known that he was dreaming of his future magnificence while standing there on the beach in his wide cotton pants, tied at the bottom around his ankles with strings, his felt thrust into a pair of peaked shoes of doubtful color, a faded red shawl bound around his waist, on his body a well-worn brown shirt, the whole crowned with the red tarboosh that covered his dark hair, around which was wound a white and riot particularly clean kufei! Who could have imagined that this poor Turkish child was dreaming of future glory, and saying to himself, as he regarded the grand gentleman on the deck of the ship: "I will one day be as you are, and even greater than you!" The governor, accompanied by the strange Turks, and followed by servants carrying palanquins, was now observed coming down the pathway from Cavalla. Hastily he walks to the beach, and, with the Turks, enters the boat and steers for the ship. The governor has now reached the ship and climbed to the deck, but the grand gentleman does not stir from his cushions, and only greets him with a gracious nod. The people on the beach observe this with astonishment, and ask each other: "Who can this be? Tschorbadji Hassan is the greatest man on our peninsula, and every head bows down before him. And this gentleman dares to salute him with a mere nod. Truly he must be a very great man!" Mohammed regards the people who are speaking contemptuously, and murmurs to himself: "I shall be a greater man some day. He is no prince, else his ship would show the admiral's flag, and the governor would fall on his face before him. The scha-er told me that such is the custom in the presence of princes. But the people shall one day prostrate them selves on their faces before me!" At last the grand gentleman arises slowly from his cushions, and lays his arm on the shoulder of the governor, who walks at his side, his head bowed down, and seemingly delighted at being permitted to bear this burden on his shoulder. They walk to the stairway; the governor busies himself in helping the stranger to descend, jumps into the boat, and extends his band to assist him to enter. He tranquilly receives these attentions; the slaves follow, and lay gold-embroidered cushions on the bottom of the boat, and the grand gentleman reclines on them in an easy attitude. The governor stands before him, addressing him with an air of profound reverence, and the slaves take up their position behind him, and waft refreshing breezes to him with their fans. As the boat reaches the beach, the governor turns and addresses the people in imperious tones: "Bow down in the dust before the grand-vizier--before Cousrouf Pacha! Salute his excellency!" All fall on their knees, and remain there in mute reverence, while the pacha, accompanied by the governor, and followed by his slaves, ascends the pathway to Cavalla. One person only had not fallen down on his knees, and that person was Mohammed Ali. He had secreted himself behind a rock, and there he stands, regarding the pacha with eager eyes, and glancing contemptuously at those who, at other times so noisy and arrogant, are now bowed down in the dust, and who have as yet not even ventured to raise their heads. But now the scene on the shore becomes an animated one. The governor has ordered that other boats be sent out to the ship, and a peculiar and wondrous sight presents itself on board. White female figures, closely enveloped in long white veils, appear on deck. Tall men, with black faces and fat bodies, stand at their side. The sailors have disappeared from the deck; no one is now visible but the white female figures and the fat black men. "That is the harem of the grand-vizier," the people now whisper to each other, "and those men at their side are the eunuchs." Two of these eunuchs now come to the shore, and, in threatening tones, order the men to leave the beach at once, and to go up to Cavalla to announce there that no one shall allow himself to be seen in the streets. The men hurriedly ascend the pathway to the city, without even venturing to look back at the pacha's harem. Mohammed Ali alone is nowhere to be seen. He has crouched down behind the rocks, and no one sees the fiery eyes that peer out cautiously from his hiding-place. The women, looking like white swans, are now rowed to the shore. The beach is bare--no one sees them. They can venture to open their veils a little, and look about them on this strange shore. Oh! what glowing eyes, what purple lips, are disclosed to the boy's sight! For the first time, his heart beats stormily; for the first time, he feels a strange delight in his soul. Yes--beautiful are these women, as are the houris in paradise, and enviable is he to whom they belong. Two of the eunuchs walk before the women, four walk beside them, and imperiously command them to draw their veils closer together. They approach several of them with profound respect, and extend their hands to assist them in entering the palanquins that stand ready to receive them; the others must go on foot. Loudly resounds the cry of the eunuchs who walk in advance: "The harem--the harem of his excellency! Away, ye men! The harem!" At this cry all flee to their houses in the city above, and none are to be seen in the deserted streets but the ladies of the harem that are being borne along in palanquins, and the train of veiled figures behind them. The procession moves on to the governor's house, where a strange scene presents itself. Servants are standing about in gold- embroidered garments; all is confusion and motion. His excellency the pacha condescends to take up his abode in the governor's palace, and the upper saloons are being opened and prepared for the distinguished guest. Adjoining the main building, a side building, with barred windows, extends far out into the garden. Until now it had stood empty, for the governor cares not for the society of women; his heart is cold toward them; he loves nothing but his son. The harem is empty, and is therefore ready to receive the women and slaves of his excellency Cousrouf Pacha. The shutters of the windows have long stood open--the eunuchs now come forward and fasten them securely. The vast building has now become quite still. Mohammed had watched the procession until the last white swan had disappeared upon the plateau above. He now slipped out of his hiding-place, and walked down to the beach to look at the ship. He had not observed that other boats had put off from the ship to land more passengers. "I should like to know the destination of this proud and beautiful ship. I should like to sail with it," murmured the boy. "Then do so!" cried a loud voice behind him. "If you wish to, my lad, come with us. One leads a splendid life on such a ship. You are tall and strong, and will be gladly accepted." His countenance beaming with joy, Mohammed turned and saw at his side a boy of slender figure, in simple Turkish garments, but his hair was closely cut, and not covered with the fez and kuffei. Mohammed glanced fiercely at the boy. "You are a slave!" said he. The boy nodded and laughed. "I am a slave. But I don't expect to remain one long; I have already heard that the capitano intends to sell me over there, and there one can make his fortune, that I know!" "Over there?" said Mohammed, eagerly. "What do you call over there?" "Well, the place we are going to!" exclaimed the boy, laughing. "To Egypt we go, carrying rich goods, and I myself, so to speak, am a piece of goods for the capitano." "You go to Egypt?" asked Mohammed; "to the land of wonders, where slaves become heroes, and heroes princes?" "Ah! you have heard it spoken of, too!" said the boy, laughing. "Yes, the sha-ers everywhere have something to relate about Egypt. In Stamboul I have often heard them tell of the Mamelukes, too!" "Of the Mamelukes? Of them, too, you have heard?" "I have not only heard of them, but I intend to make a Mameluke of myself. As you know, these Mamelukes are the slaves of the beys in Egypt. I hope to have the good fortune to be purchased by a bey. I know all that is necessary to become the servant of a Mameluke." "And what is necessary?" asked Mohammed, eagerly. "What is it that you know?" "I can ride as well as the best of the horsemen of the grand-vizier. On a bare horse I can fly over the plains with the speed of a bird. I know how to handle the sword and the spear, and in the fastest gallop I can sever the head of a horse from his body. These are arts that are useful over there, and in them I am a master. You may look at me in astonishment if you will! I am not as tall and stout as you are, but I can tell you I have the strength of a giant, and, in spite of my fourteen years, I am a man. I expect to make my fortune in Egypt." "And where have you been until now? From what place do you come?" "I have been a slave from my youth; I was well brought up and had an education; I know how to wait on fine gentlemen. I served a nobleman as first valet for three years, but couldn't stand the dull, effeminate life. I longed to be out in the world, and committed all sorts of freaks in order that my master might drive me off. To be sure, I received the bastinado daily, but I stood it like a man. I determined to continue to annoy my gracious master until he should sell me. Look at my feet!" He took off his shoes and showed Mohammed the scarred soles of his feet. "These are the scars with which I have purchased my future. Yes; but why do you look at me in such astonishment? By Allah! I should not like to live on this rock here, like you! I must out into the world; must go to Egypt, and make something great of myself." "But how will you begin it?" asked Mohammed. "I should like to do so, too." "I don't know yet," replied the boy, carelessly; "it will depend upon how I succeed in recommending myself to a bey with my horsemanship and sword. One thing I can tell you, if I once become a Mameluke, I shall rise. In case you should hear of me some day, in case my celebrity should reach even this desolate rock, I will tell you my name. My name is Osman, and in mockery, because I served a nobleman, they added bey to it. But I tell you, I will make of the name given me in derision a real title! If you hear of me some day, I shall be called Osman Bey in earnest." "I will tell you my name, too," said Mohammed, proudly, "and if you ever hear of me, you shall know that you once met me here upon the beach. My name is Mohammed Ali, and I am Ibrahim Aga's son. I am a freeman, you must know, and have never bowed my head beneath the yoke of another! Remember my name, little Osman, and, if Allah wills it, you shall hear of me someday. My name is Mohammed Ali." He nodded to the boy contemptuously, and walked off. Osman laughed, and cried after him: "You will probably hear of me first, you bold boy, you beggar- prince! I shall probably never hear of the beggar-prince, Mohammed Ali, son of Ibrahim Aga, but of me you shall hear, you silly lad! Don't forget my name: I am called Osman Bey." If they both could now have known the future! If a prophet had permitted the two boys who met here for the first time, in order that they might angrily impress their names on each other's memory, to look into the future, what would they have seen in its mirror? Two heroes opposed to each other in ardent love, and in wild enmity. Both equally great, equally ambitious, and equally greedy of glory. They would have seen blood flowing in streams for their sake. They would have seen how Osman Bey, called by the name of Bardissi, dashed onward, flourishing his cimeter at the head of thousands of devoted followers. They would have seen Mohammed Ali in a glittering uniform, mounted on his proud steed, at the head of thousands charging with uplifted sword against Bardissi. Here on a rock in the bay of San Marmora, the boys met for the first time, and instinct permitted them to feel the enmity that existed between them throughout their entire lives, and which caused thousands to fall, and blood to flow in streams. They know nothing of this now. Osman whistles a merry air and jumps into the boat that bears him back to the ship. Mohammed Ali ascends the rock to a quiet and solitary spot. There he will rest and meditate on what he has seen and heard to-day. The ship sails out to sea. Like a giant swan, proudly, majestically, it glides over the blue waves, until at last it rises up in the distance with its masts and spars against the horizon, faintly, like a mere vision of the air. Above, on the Ear of Bucephalus, stands Mohammed Ali, leaning on his gun, his eyes fixed on the ship. He sighs profoundly as it now disappears without leaving the slightest trace behind, as though engulfed by the waters. "Gone," he murmured--"gone! What was the name of the boy, the slave who so defiantly charged me to remember his name? I remember, it was Osman. Yes, Osman Bey, he said. Well, he may depend upon it I shall remember his name, and he may also count on remembering that my name is Mohammed Ali, if we should ever meet again. Oh, I envy him," said he, in low tones, looking longingly at the horizon. "Oh, I would so gladly have gone with him to the wondrous land the scha-er told of, where slaves become heroes, and heroes princes. He, the slave, goes thither; and I, who am free, am bound to this rock by my poor mother, and must remain!" The ship sailed on farther and farther on the bright waves. It glided onward over the deep-blue sea two days longer; on the third day the sailors shouted with joy, for the water had become green, and this announced to the experienced seamen that they should soon see land. When the waves of the Mediterranean Sea change from blue to green, the yellow coast of Africa is near. Another day passed, and the ship entered the harbor of Alexandria. The black and brown people came out to the ship, howling and yelling in their little boats, and with them came the slave-dealers to look for human wares, to bargain for the living as well as for the dead freight. The captain shows the slave-dealers his line piece of goods, the boy Osman Bey, and offers him as a good article of merchandise. "He is a splendid servant, and knows how to color the chibouque, and how to wait on his master with soft words." "He knows more than that!" exclaimed the boy Osman Bey, indignantly. "He knows how to scour across the desert on his steed without saddle or bridle, and loves to flourish the cimeter and lay the heads of men and animals at his feet with a single blow." The slave-dealer regards him with favorable glances. That is what he needs. The great Mameluke prince Mourad needs many servants and warriors, and he gave the dealer authority to purchase men for him, young, strong, and healthy men. The ranks of his Mamelukes need recruiting. He will make a fine Mameluke, this slender young man with the keen, glittering eyes. "What will you have for the boy?" The captain shrugged his shoulders. "He is really beyond all price; for, as I tell you, he is a splendid servant, and, as he tells you himself, he is a fine horseman, and knows how to wield the cimeter. He is priceless, and I hardly think we shall come to terms." They now began to bargain for this human merchandise. They made a great deal of noise, quarrelled, and shook their fists in each other's faces, while young Osman Bey stood at their side, his arms folded on his breast, calmly looking on and smiling at the uproar created on his account. At last they came to terms. The dealer received his living goods, young Osman Bey, and paid the captain the price agreed upon. If young Mohammed Ali could see this: if his dark brown eye could send a glance with the speed of an arrow across the waves and through the days and nights ; and if he could hear how the slave, Osman Bey, is traded off for sugar and coffee; if he could see Osman standing in the slave market awaiting a purchaser; if he could see Mourad, the Mameluke bey, at last approach, smile approvingly on young Osman, and finally purchase and place him among his followers; if he could have seen this and the future, he would have felt proud and happy in being a free man, although a poor one. His hands are not fettered, he serves no master, and he cannot be bargained for and sold like a bale of goods ! He is a free human being, conscious of his own worth, and also conscious of the great future that awaits him. He is thinking of it now as he stands on the rock leaning on his gun, and staring out into the air after the vanished ship. He does not see the future; he only dreams of it as he looks out into the vacant air, oblivious of the present. Nor does he see the mother, who, while he stands there, is hastening painfully and breathlessly, her head bowed down, from her humble but to the proud, main street of the city, to the store of the merchant Lion. The merchant saw her coming, met her at the door, and held out his hand to her. "Is it you, Sitta Khadra?" he cried, as she reached the door. "I must tell you I have expected you, esteemed lady, light of my eyes" She tottered into the hall and seated herself in the chair which the merchant had hastened to bring her. "Why these fine phrases, sir? Talk to me in short and terse language, as you Franks are accustomed to do, and pay no attention to the flowery words which, with us, the men are in the habit of mocking instead of flattering us poor creatures." "I am not mocking you, Sitta Khadra," said the merchant, gravely. " I esteem you, for you are a good woman, and therefore I addressed you as I did. I know you well, and I know what you have there hidden under your veil." "What have I there, sir?" "You have brought me back the gold-embroidered goods, and the veil bordered with golden fringe, which your son Mohammed bought for you." "Yes, sir; I have brought them back. They do not become me. I did not like to tell the boy so, for it pleases him to think I will array myself in them. I therefore accepted them, hoping you would take them back." "I expected you, and see, I have the money ready for you. When I saw you coming, I took it quickly from my purse. Here, good Sitta ghadra, are the six ducats which Mohammed gave me." She shook her head gently. "You are very kind, sir, and I thank you. Yet, I cannot accept them. Mohammed would scold me when he learned it. He told me, himself, that he had given you four ducats and not six. I divined that you had given him the goods at a cheaper price, and that he could not have paid for them at their real value. By this I perceived that the sale was only a pretended one, and have hoped you would take back the goods. But the money I will not receive." "To whom shall I give it, then?" asked the astonished merchant. "I dare not offer it to Mohammed; I believe it would make him so angry that he would raise his hand against me. You must not tell him, Sitta Khadra, that you have brought me back the goods." "You are right, sir; I should not like to cause him this unhappiness. I shall tell him I have taken the goods to the tailor to have it made into a dress by the next Bairam's festival. But when the festival comes, I shall no longer be here, and he will not see that I have not put on the costly dress." "You will not be here, Sitta Khadra? Then where will you be?" asked the merchant. She slowly raised her arm, and pointed upward. "Up there, sir, with my beloved master, Ibrahim Aga; I shall see the glory of Allah, and shall see the prophet, the great prophet to whom my heart-felt prayers so often ascend." "What is it you are saying, good Sitta? At the next Bairam's festival, you will surely still be with us on earth." She slowly shook her head. "I am dying, sir. I have been dying for the last two days look at my lips." "They are red and fresh, and show that you are in health, Sitta Khadra." "Yea, my lips are red, because I have colored them with henna, that Mohammed may not see how pale they are. For him I have colored my cheeks, too. Good sir, one may deceive out of love, and Allah will forgive me for having made my face a lie out of love for my son. I tell you I am dying; therefore have I come to bring you the goods, and to beg you to take the money and keep it. When he is in want give it to him, and tell him Mother Khadra sends it with her best blessing, and that he must accept it as a present from me, and make a good use of it. I know, sir, that you will give it to him, and that you will watch over him that you may know when he needs it. "And one thing more I beg of you, whenever you see my beloved son, say to him: --Mohammed Ali, your mother Khadra, loved you very dearly, and sends you a greeting from Heaven, through me. She dwells, above with your father, Ibrahim Aga, and both are looking down upon you, and observing your actions. Therefore be thoughtful, Mohammed, to walk pure and free in the sight of Allah and your parents. Promise me, that you will often say this to my son." "I promise, Sitta Khadra," said the merchant, solemnly. "I promise you that I will watch over your dear son, and that, if it is in my power, I will at all times be ready to lend him a helping hand. I give you my hand to seal this promise, Sitta Khadra." She took his hand, and the merchant knew by the heat of her thin, wan fingers that a burning fever was in her blood, and that Death had kissed her lips. "Now, all is well," said she, as she rose to her feet with a painful effort. "Now I will return home, that my darling, my Mohammed, may find me when he comes. I have but a few more days to live, and I would not lose a moment that I can spend with him. Farewell! Allah be with you!" CHAPTER VIII THE FRIENDS. In the house of the governor every thing was changed since the day on which the grand-vizier had taken up his abode in the upper saloons. Young Osman, the son of the tschorbadji, experienced this change with great displeasure. Since the stranger's harem had been installed in the side-building, whose windows open on the garden, the governor's son can no longer walk freely in all parts of the beautiful park and enjoy its solitude without fear of interruption. By far the greater portion of the park has been set apart for the use of the harem, and only a small portion adjoining the courtyard is reserved for him. "And yet fresh air and the sunshine are my only enjoyments," said he, complainingly, to Mohammed Ali, who had come the next day, according to promise, to repeat to young Osman what the scha-er had spoken, to narrate to him the wondrous stories of the Mamelukes. He lay reclining on a mat in front of young Osman's couch, and in excited words, with glowing eyes, he told the heroic stories of the proudest people of Egypt. Osman's large eyes were fixed on his face in an earnest gaze, and a slight color tinged his pale cheeks as he listened. "Beautiful, is it not?" asked Mohammed, as he finished his narrative. "Would not you, too, like to go to the land where, as the scha-er says, slaves become heroes, and heroes princes?' Osman shook his head gently. "I do not know, Mohammed. I should be contented, I think, to remain here, reclining on my cushions, the sun above me, and you at my side." "But what I have related is beautiful, is it not?" "I do not know," replied Osman, for the second time. "I regarded you while you were speaking, and I rejoiced in you. It seems to me, Mohammed, as though you were the better part of myself. I feel as you feel, and think as you think, and rejoice when I hear you utter in fresh and glowing words that which my lips can utter with timidity and hesitation only. If I were healthy, Mohammed, I should be, I think, as you are. Therefore, whenever I look at you, it seems to me I see myself as I might be, but am not." "You will be yourself, again," said Mohammed, tenderly. "When you have become strong again, no one will be able to compete with you in manly exercises, and like all the other boys I shall have to bow my head humbly before you, and shall have to pay you the tribute as they pay it to me." In reply, Osman merely raised his pale, transparent hand and showed it to Mohammed. "Look at this pare, colorless hand. A poor, withered flower, good for nothing except to press the hand of a friend, but a hand that can never wield the sword or battle with the unruly waves as yours can. No, Mohammed! I shall perhaps have health enough to live like the flower or the blade of grass, but not to live like the eagle, like the steed, like Mohammed Ali! But I will not complain. I am contented; every one has his portion of happiness on earth; mine is, to lie on the purple in the sunshine, and to hear my Mohammed tell stories. But I entreat you to come very often," he continued, with a sigh. "They have now curtailed my little earthly happiness; since this Turk has come with his harem and his glittering suite, I am very miserable. I know that my father feels it, too, and often wishes his distinguished guest had taken his departure." "Will he remain long, Osman?" "That depends on whether his sun shines again in Stamboul," said young Osman, shrugging his shoulders. "I must tell you, Mohammed, there are peculiar circumstances connected with this gentleman. He has fallen into disfavor, and is waiting here to see whether his sun will shine again or not. He has been sent into exile, and it was really intended that he should go to Egypt, where the Mamelukes of whom you have just been relating such heroic stories, have again risen in wild insurrection against the Turkish governor, and Cousrouf Pacha is lying in wait here because he has good friends in Stamboul who are working for him, and because he hopes to be able to return to the beautiful capital where he can revel in luxury; whereas, if he should go to Egypt, he would be compelled to draw the sword and march out to bloody battle." "I hate him--the coward!" exclaimed Mohammed. "I despise men who prefer eating sugar with women in the harem, to mounting their steeds and taking the field against the enemy, sword in hand." "That will never be your preference," said Osman, regarding him tenderly. "No, never," protested the boy. "Women are good playthings for hours of leisure, when a man has nothing better to do. But to revel, like Cousrouf, in luxury--to hide himself while he might be attempting deeds of heroism--to be dallying with women instead of mowing off the heads of his enemies, that I cannot comprehend. It is repulsive to me to think of a man's surrounding himself with women, and taking delight in their caresses and soft words." "It suits Cousrouf very well!" said Osman, smiling. "He spends the greater part of his time in the harem. Singing, music, and rejoicing, are the order of the day there. Black female slaves fan him with fans made of peacock-feathers; others, on their knees, fill his chibouque, while he reclines on his cushions, smoking and dreamily gazing at the beautifully-attired female slaves who dance before him." "And he," said Mohammed, "he, the vain man, imagines that they dance and remain in his harem out of love for him! "I suppose they make him think so. They say a woman's lips make a lie sweet, and that her face always wears a mask! And yet" he continued, looking dreamily toward the harem, "I must tell you, Mohammed, I sometimes think I should be happy, too, and less tormented with ennui, if one of these houris of paradise sat at my side, chastely veiled, regarding me lovingly and I could look through the white veil at the smile on her lips. Ah, Mohammed, we, who are not made to become heroes, feel an irresistible longing after love, and the sweet delight of being loved. You, of course, cannot understand this." "No, I cannot," cried Mohammed, with a contemptuous smile. "I shall never bow my head beneath the yoke of female slaves, with their beautiful almond-shaped eyes and purple lips. I shall consider all women as playthings, with the exception of my mother," said he, bowing his head with profound reverence. "Allah forgive me for speaking ill of women, for our mothers are women, Osman! Forgive me my pride and folly. I speak only of the light-footed slaves, with the deceiving smile and the false eyes." "And who knows,' said Osman, smiling, "but that my Mohammed, who speaks of these fetters so derisively, may not some day be vanquished? Do not set your face against it, Mohammed. Remember that even the heart of the great prophet glowed with love, and that it was he who peopled paradise with houris, and promised it, as the highest bliss, that beautiful women should there kneel down before the blessed spirits, gently stroke their feet, and look at them lovingly with their lustrous, gazelle-like eyes. Therefore, do not say, Mohammed, that your heart shall never be accessible to love! Yours is a true, manly heart, and a manly heart must love. You see, Mohammed, I am hardly a man, and shall probably never become one, and therefore I do not believe that love will ever hold me in its golden net; I shall love nothing but my best, my only friend." "And will you tell me his name, Osman? " asked Mohammed, bending down closely to him. Passionately, almost threateningly, he repeated: "Will you tell me the name of this, your beloved, your only friend?" Osman, smiled, took from a cushion an oval mirror, framed in mother- of-pearl, with a golden handle, and held it before Mohammed. "Look at yourself, and you will know his name." Looking, not at the mirror, but earnestly into his friend's eyes, Mohammed stooped down and kissed Osman's lips. "Listen, Osman, to what I say! I am almost ashamed to confess it, and yet it is true, next to my mother I love you best on earth, and I believe I could sacrifice my life for you." "And I mine for you," said Osman, gently. "Let us swear to be true friends forever," continued Mohammed. "Here is my hand! Eternal friendship! If you need me, Osman, call me, and, were I ever so distant, I would come to you. When in want, or when cast down by sorrow and suffering, I will complain to no one but you. What my lips will confess to no one else, they shall confess to Osman. Shall it be so? Friendship for life?" "Yes, life-long friendship!' said Osman. "Men need not know it. We will preserve as our secret the bond of friendship we have formed, and I only entreat of Allah that he may some day permit me to prove to you that I am your friend." "And this I entreat of Allah, too," said Mohammed, warmly pressing his friend's wan hand. "But now let me go; the scha-er relates again to-day, and I will go and hear him, and come to-morrow to repeat to you what I have heard, if you wish it." "I shall await you, Mohammed, and count the hours until you come." They shook hands once more, and Mohammed hurried down the garden- walks. Osman's eyes followed him lovingly. "I love him, and may Allah enable me to prove it some day!" Mohammed hurries on, heedless of the direction he has taken, and forgetting that the use of the main avenue was forbidden since the harem had taken possession of the park. He walks on, carelessly, heedlessly. He wishes to pass out at the back gate of the garden, as he often did. Hastening on, with flushed cheeks, he hardly perceives a veiled figure, accompanied by two eunuchs, that has just stepped out into the walk from a side-path. The eunuchs cry out, and imperiously command him to depart instantly. Mohammed stands still, shrugs his shoulders, and regards them derisively. "Are you the masters here in the park of the tschorbadji of Cavalla?" he asks, proudly. "I shall depart when I choose, and because I choose, and not because the strange servants of the stranger have the insolence to order me to do so." He said this in haughty, angry tones, and with sparkling eyes, inclined his head slightly to the veiled female figure, and passed slowly by her without even a curious glance. But she stands still, and her black eyes burn like flames as her gaze follows him, and her purple lips murmur, in low tones: "Beautiful is he, as the young day; beautiful as the rosy dawn of heaven! Oh, that it shone over me! Oh, that this sun were mine!" He heeded her not; he did not hear the sweet whispering of her lips. CHAPTER IX A SOUL IN THE AGONIES OF DEATH. THE narratives of the scha-er continued to resound in Mohammed's soul, and occupied him day and night. His existence seemed useless and empty, and every thing that surrounded him colorless and desolate. What cared he now for cliffs and caves, for the surging sea, for the blue sky? How little it seemed to him to be the best rifleman and oarsman of the island, to be renowned down in Praousta as the best fisherman! What does he care for all this? Who hears of what takes place in Cavalla, or in the miserable village of Praousta? Nobody comes here except the merchants who sometimes land to purchase the celebrated tobacco, and the sultan's collectors who come twice a year for the taxes. Who knows of these insignificant places? Who observes Mohammed Ali when he strikes the bird in its flight, or steers his boat over the waves in the wildest storm? All is tame and paltry! With his mind's eye he sees before him the cities the scha-er had told of. Over there in Egypt, stretched out on the yellow shore of the green sea, lies a great and magnificent city with towers, minarets, and temples, a city such as he has never seen, the, city of Alexandria. Before this city, in the spacious harbor that has existed for thousands of years, lie long rows of ships with masts, and fluttering flags, and golden images at their bows. Little boats dance about the ship, and all is activity and bustle. In the interior of the land shines El-gahera, the new city, with the palaces of the caliphs and its hundreds of minarets and temples. The streets are alive with men of all nations; there are Turks and Arabians, Egyptians and Europeans. The blacks of Nubia and Abyssinia mingle with the white men of France and Germany, and the languages of all nations are heard. He lay on the rock, on the Ear of Bucephalus, gazing out into the distance toward the horizon, imagining he could see these wondrous cities. He dreamed of the glories of the world, and his fancy beheld boats and ships, palaces and minarets. The sea lies beneath like a blue mirror. The waves murmur in low tones as they caress the shore. The stillness is profound, the solitude of the first day of creation surrounds him. Suddenly a cry resounds, a loud, piercing one, such as the eagle utters when his young are in danger. It aroused Mohammed from his meditation. "Strange! I heard the cry, yet I can nowhere see the eagle that uttered it." For the second time it resounds, louder and more piercing than before. Mohammed shudders in his whole being. The cry is not that of an eagle. It is a human voice. Toussoun has uttered it, and it announces that his mother is in danger. He springs with horror to his feet, and bounds from rock to rock, down the steep-he has just heard the cry for the third time. "Await me, mother! O my mother, I am coming!" Like an arrow he speeds through the suburb to his mother's hut. Pale and terrified, Toussoun meets him at the door. He had risen from his bed of sickness in response to Khadra's call. With weak, trembling lips he had entreated her to allow him to call her son, and he did call him, breathing out his last remnant of strength in summoning Mohammed to his mother. Pale, weak, and ill, he now returns to his own hut, supported on the arm of a neighbor, and returns to die. Mohammed has not noticed him. He springs to the door, tears it open, and sees the women who have come to Sitta Khadra's assistance. Now that he has come they walk out noiselessly, and wait at the door. How long will it be before she is dead, before they can assume the role of mourning-women, and begin their lamentations? True, Sitta Khadra is poor, but then the community will, out of self-respect, pay the mourning charges. Consoling themselves with this thought, the women crouch down at the door. Mohammed kneels beside the mat on which his mother lies, takes her hands--now almost cold-in his own, bends over her and looks into the widely-distended eyes that stare vacantly up at him, and sobs in loud, heart-rending tones "Mother, Mother, Do you hear me? Here I am, your son, Mohammed. You cannot die, for I am with you!" The words of her son reach the mother's soul, that was already on the point of fluttering to heaven. It returns to its poor frail habitation. Life returns to her eyes, and a faint smile plays about her pale lips. The mother heard her child's voice, and her soul returned to the already stiffening body. With a faint smile she raised her head a little to kiss his lips. "I recognize you, my son, and I awaken once more to bid you farewell." "No, mother, it is impossible, you cannot leave me!" said he, in such loud and piercing tones that the mourning-women at the door heard it and whispered to each other: "That was a good cry; we could do no better ourselves." "Son of my heart," whispered Khadra, and the mother employed her last strength to force her cold lips to speak and to recall the thoughts already struggling to take wing--" son of my Ibrahim, do not grieve for me! I have been dying these many days, I have long struggled with Death. He stood at the door ready to take me, but I thrust him back that I might see my son, my darling, once more." "O mother, mother! you are breaking my heart," cried Mohammed, and his head sank heavily upon his mother's shoulder. "Be brave, my son, I entreat you with my last breath! Be brave, be a man, and consider my dream with the eye of your soul. Make it reality! Make of the poor, disconsolate boy who stands here the hero of the future, as I saw you in my visions in the nights before you were born! I saw a crown on your head and a sword glittered in your hand. And I see the future now, too; and I will tell you what I see, my son: I see you, your son, and your grandson! They shall all wear crowns, shall sit on one throne, and the nations shall lie in the dust before them! My soul has returned to announce this to you." "If your soul has returned," said he, in tones of earnest entreaty, "then command it to remain with you! Life will be solitary and desolate without you. You are the only woman I love. If you go, take me with you, and tell the prophet, if he be angry, that I could be of no use here on earth without you. Take me to my father and say to him, the family shall be united in heaven as it never was on earth." "No, you shall not go with me," said she, raising herself with a last effort from the mat. "I command you to live! I shall go to your father and bear him the greeting of our only son, and say to him, 'We shall not die, we shall live on in our son; he will make our name great and glorious before the world!' But you I command to make true what I shall tell him." She sank back. Her head fell heavily on her pillow of dry leaves; her breathing became short and painful, and her eyes again assumed the vacant expression that had struck such terror to Mohammed's soul. "Mother, I entreat you, answer me once more! Do you hear me? Do you love me?" "I hear you," murmured the stiffening lips. "And do I love you? Your mother's love struggled with Death for a whole year. He tried to drag me hence, and I struggled with him day after day, and night after night. Love helped me to deceive you, or you would have seen your mother dying day by day. Now, I am going hence, and the agathodaemon will give me new garments, and a new countenance full of youth and beauty, that your father may see me as I looked in the days of our youthful love. O my son, may the woman you are to love be not far distant; may she soon wing her flight to you, the dove of innocence, with the countenance of love and the fragrance of the rose? May she open heaven unto you with her star-like eyes? This is my last blessing, my son. Allah watch over you! Farewell!" The words were soft and low, like the whispering of a departing spirit. Mohammed had listened eagerly, his ear held close to her lips, and he still listened when the light of his mother's eyes was extinguished, and the hand of Death had swept over her countenance, imparting to the white brow a yellow, and to the lips a blue tint. Suddenly he shuddered, raised his head and looked at his mother. He then uttered a shriek, a loud, fearful shriek, that caused the mourning-women outside to bound to their feet, for they knew that it was thus that survivors shriek when Death seizes his prey. They now commence their mournings, and farther off other cries and lamentations are heard. The latter are uttered by the friends of Ibrahim Aga. They have placed themselves near the but to begin, according to a religious custom, the service of the dead, as soon as the soul shall have left the body. They form a circle near the open door. Their arms crossed over their breasts, they stand there, moving their heads continually from one side to the other. "Allah il Allah!" they cry, and within stand the women shrieking, yelling, and lamenting, over the deceased. They at last arouse Mohammed, who had swooned away beside the body. He springs to his feet, pushes back the women, and bounds into the middle of the circle of men, who whirl around faster and faster; they suppose he has come to join in their ceremony, but he pushes them aside and rushes forth. He rushes so rapidly up the pathway that no one can follow him, and no one attempts to do so. His grief must exhaust itself, they say to each other. "When it has done so, and evening comes, he will return." The evening came, but Mohammed had not returned to perform the sacred duty of watching over the dead through the night, as it became an only son to do. The mourning women had departed to rest after their exertions. They now returned, the sheik having ordered that they should perform the night-watch in the absence of the son, in order that the ghins might not enter and pronounce their curse over the house, condemning the future generations, descending from the dead, to misery. The mourning-women remained the entire night, sometimes interrupting their prayers, to say to each other that Mohammed, the only son, was really a very unnatural child, and respected his mother very little, or he would not be wandering about among the rocks, while his mother's body was still unburied. Then they console themselves with the thought that he will come in the morning, when the tomtom resounds, which calls the people to the funeral. The signal is heard on the following morning, and the men come carrying in their crossed arms the Koran. The sheik himself condescends to appear at Sitta Khadra's funeral. She was an honest, virtuous woman, and is to be buried with honor beside the grave of her husband, Ibrahim. The mourners slowly assemble. The tomtom is still vainly summoning the only son. The body has been laid on two boards covered with woollen cloths, and is borne out on the shoulders of four men. The mourning-women yell and shriek, the men murmur prayers, and the drum resounds, while the procession is slowly moving toward the place of burial. Mohammed hears nothing of all this. He has fled to the cave, once his paradise, now his hell. There he lies on his mat, looking up through the opening in the rock at the heavens, and cursing the ghins who have robbed him of his mother. But his agathodaemon will intercede with Allah for his forgiveness for the despair which causes his lips to utter curses of which his heart knows nothing. The good spirits will intercede for the poor boy. Driven out into the world alone. Poorer than the eagle's brood in their nest overhead, that have tender parents to care for them. No one cares for me. The echo mournfully repeats the piercing cry that had resounded throughout the cave, and says sadly: "No one, no one." He then sinks down on his mat, and lies there motionless and insensible with grief and horror. Without, the sea murmurs gently, as if to sing a song of consolation. He hears it not. All is now so still that the little snakes and green lizards with their sparkling eyes venture forth again from the hiding places to which they had fled when his despairing voice reverberated through the cave. They creep up to the dark, motionless mass that lies there on the ground. The sun sends its rays through the opening in the rock, and throws a streak of golden light across the prostrate body, and the little animals crawl and rustle about to enjoy the sunshine. A large rock-serpent has crawled from its lair and coiled itself beside Mohammed; its eyes glitter in the sunlight like precious stones. "I will die--die " he suddenly cries out, and springs to his feet so quickly that the serpents and lizards barely escape being trodden on as they escape to their holes behind the rocks. "Here I will remain. How often, in the past, have I longed to be in my cave, my only secret, my only possession." Once, to gratify this longing, I came here, and then turned back, and said to myself. He who cannot practice self-denial, cannot enjoy! And now I have practiced it, and yet I have not enjoyed. But now I will enjoy, will enjoy death, at least. Yes, I am resolved," said he, with trembling lips." I will remain here and enjoy death. What does this struggling from day to day avail this dreaming of future glory? Each succeeding day is in poverty and misery the same. I was a fool to dream of future glory. Now I will die. Let others be happy! Let the slave, Osman Bey, attain what the free Mohammed cannot attain. He is welcome to his reward death is at the end of it all, for him, too!" He looks, through the opening in the rock, at the heavens above him, and then rises higher to look down at the sea also, as though he wished to take leave of it in a last glance. He then lies down on his mat again. "Yes, let the slave Osman achieve glory, the free Mohammed prefers death." And yet, against his will, he must still think of the slave who has gone out into the world over the sea to the wondrous land of Egypt, where the caliphs were once enthroned, where their tombs still stand, and where the Mamelukes now rule in their stead. He still dreams of this wondrous land, with its ancient cities, and thinks that these may be the death dreams that are to lull him to his eternal rest. He is suddenly awakened from his dreams by a horrible sensation. It is hunger, the hunger that rages within him. It is thirst that parches his lips. The soul wishes to die, but the body calls the man back to life, and appeals to him so loudly, so vehemently, that he cannot but listen to its voice. He resists with all his might. He will conquer. This miserable hunger, this despicable thirst; he will not heed the pains that rend his body, he will be strong, and a hero, in death at least. Convulsively he clings to the rock as if to a support against the allurements that strive to draw him out into life. But the voice of the world appeals to him, in louder and louder tones, and fearful are the torments he is undergoing. The spirit must at last succumb to the demands of Nature. He rises to give to the body what of right belongs to the body, nourishment, drink and food. He creeps to the entrance, and is so weak that he can hardly pass through the opening, which he had formerly made still narrower, that no one might discover it. He is so weak that he can scarcely stand upright; his swollen lips are bleeding; his brain is burning, and he sinks down upon a rock. A kindly voice now calls him. He hears it, but lacks the strength to answer. "Mohammed! Mohammed!" is heard again, and now the merchant, Lion, approaches from behind a projecting rock. He had seen the boy, but knowing his proud heart, and fearing to put him to shame by showing himself, and saying that he came to his assistance, he had lingered behind the rock. He now kneels down beside the boy, bends over him, kisses his lips, and whispers loving words in his ear. "Poor child, Your mother, who loved you so tenderly, would weep bitterly if she could see you in this condition. Poor boy, you must strengthen yourself. I know you have eaten nothing, and I have brought you food." He drew a bottle from his pocket, and poured a little wine on his lips. Mohammed tried to resist, but the body was stronger than the will. He greedily swallows the wine, and, without knowing it, asks for more. The merchant smiles approvingly, and pours a little more on his lips, and then gives him a small piece of white bread that he had brought with him, and rejoices when he sees Mohammed breathing with renewed life. "What are you doing?" he murmured. "I must die, that I may go to my mother." The merchant stooped down lower over the boy, and kissed him. "Your mother, who loves you so dearly, sends you this kiss, through me. She confided to me that she must die, and I promised her that I would bring you a kiss from her whenever I saw you. With this kiss she commands you to be brave and happy throughout life." And, as he ceased speaking, he inclined his head and kissed him a second time. Now, as he receives this kiss from his mother, the tears suddenly burst from his eyes and pour down his cheeks, hot tears, and yet they cool and alleviate the burning pains of his soul. "You weep," said the merchant, whose own cheeks were wet with grief. "Weep on, pain must have its relief in tears, and even a man need not be ashamed of them." He sat down beside Mohammed, drew him close to his side, supporting the boy's head on his bosom, and spoke to him of his dear mother. "Nor are you poor, Mohammed. Your mother returned to me your love- offering, together with other sums she had saved. I have fifty gold- pieces for you. Yes, fifty glittering gold-pieces! You can now dress better than formerly, until provision is made for your future; and, if you should need advice or assistance, come to me. You know that I am your friend. And now, be happy and courageous; remember that poor Sitta Khadra has suffered much, and let her be at rest now. Another friend is awaiting you above on the rock; will you go up to him?" "It is Osman, is it not?" asked Mohammed, as be dried his eyes. "Am I not right?" The merchant inclined his head. "He could not come down the steep path, or he would be here now." "I will go to him; I know he loves me. He will not laugh when he sees that I have been weeping." No, Osman did not laugh. When he saw his friend coming, he advanced to meet him with extended arms, and they embraced each other tenderly, tears standing in the eyes of both. All was still; nothing could be heard but the murmur of the sea, and the rustling of the wind. The merchant, who had at first stood in silence beside the two, now walked noiselessly away. They love each other, and what they have to say, no one else should hear. Mohammed stands up and dries his eyes; he wishes to be composed. Osman holds out his hand: "Your mother is dead, but she survives in your friends, and your mother and your friend now extend the hand to you. Mohammed, come with me to my house, for my house is yours, too. I will not have you remain alone; you must come with me." Mohammed shook his head gravely. "It cannot be--I will not become a slave!" "Come, out of love for me. Not as my slave, but as my friend. Oh, I am so lonely, and you are the only one who loves, and can console, poor, sickly Osman." "I will come to you!" exclaimed Mohammed, drawing his friend to his bosom. "Even as a slave would I come, for I should be my friend's slave. I will come to you." CHAPTER X COUSROUF PACHA. THE days had passed quietly and monotonously for Mohammed since the death of his mother. To climb among the rocks with his gun in stormy weather, to cross over in his boat to Imbra, after the fishermen's nets and fish, and to tame the young Arabian steeds of the tschorbadji that had as yet known no bridle, these were now Mohammed's chief pursuits and pleasures, and in them he engaged with passionate ardor when at leisure, that is, when not with his friend Osman Bey. That which they had vowed to each other after the death of Mohammed's mother, they had kept-true and firm friendship, brotherly and confidential intercourse. With one wish only of young Osman, had Mohammed not complied: he had not gone to live with him in the proud, governmental building-had refused to share his friend's luxury and magnificence, and to allow his poverty to be put to shame by the benefits which he would have been compelled to accept. The hut, inherited from his parents, he retained as his own dwelling. In it nothing had been changed; the mat on which his mother had died was now his bed. In the pitcher out of which she had drunk, he each morning brought fresh water from the spring, and all the articles she had used, poor and miserable as they were, now constituted the furniture of his hut. In vain had Osman continually renewed his entreaties: "Come to me. Live with me; not for your own sake, Mohammed. I know that you despise luxury, and that the splendor that surrounds us is offensive to you. Not for your own, but for my sake, Mohammed, come to me and live with us. My father is so anxious to have you do so, for he knows that your presence is the best medicine for me. I feel so well and strong when I look at you, Mohammed; and, when you sometimes yield to my entreaties and spend the night with me in my room, it seems to me I sleep better, for I know that my friend is watching over me. Stay with me, Mohammed!" These soft entreaties, accompanied by tender looks, touched Mohammed, but they could not shake his resolution. "I cannot and dare not accept, Osman. It would make me unhappy; I should feel myself under too much restraint; I must, above all, preserve the consciousness of being perfectly free and independent. I must feel that I can leave when I choose, and for this very reason is it so sweet to remain--to be with you, unfettered for your sake only, Osman. If I should come and live with you in the palace of the tschorbadji, do you not think I should be an object of dislike to your slaves and servants; that they would point at me when I passed, and whisper: 'How proud and insolent he is, and yet he is less than I! We are the slaves of our master, and repay with our work the money he spends on our account. But what is he? A proud beggar supported by charity, who has the impudence to give himself the airs of a gentleman.' Your slaves would say this of me, and mock me with my beggar pride. But, as it is, I am free, and my clothing is my own. It is certainly not as handsome as yours, the caftan not embroidered, the shawl not of Persian make, and the kuffei around my fez not inworked with gold. But yet it is my own, and it pleases me to be thus plainly dressed, as it becomes the son of Ibrahim Aga. I live as it becomes me; my hut is dark and poor--but it is mine, and in it I am a free man. I do not sleep on soft cushions; a plain mat is my bed, but on this mat my mother reposed, and on it she died. To me it is sacred. I pray to my mother each night, Osman, and I greet her each morning when I drink out of the wooden cup so often touched by her lips. I should have to give up all this, and come here to repose in splendid apartments, sleep on silken mattresses, and allow myself to be waited on by slaves who do not belong to me. No, Osman, do not demand this; let me come to you each day, of my own free-will and love." He extended his hand to his friend, who, as usual, lay reclining on his couch, and Osman pressed it warmly in his own. "You are a proud boy," said he, in low tones, "and though your refusal gives me pain, I can still understand that in your sense you are right, Mohammed. In short, you do not wish to be grateful to anybody." "And yet I am grateful to you, Osman," said Mohammed, regarding him tenderly; "all my heart is full of gratitude and love for you; but how much do I owe to you! Is it not for your sake that your father, the proud tschorbadji, is so kind and friendly to me? Does he not allow me, the lowly born, to sit with him at his table, and treat me as his equal?" "Because he well knows that you would otherwise never come to me again," said Osman, with a sad smile. "He is careful not to hurt or offend you in any way, for, as you know, my father loves me very dearly, and it would give him pain to deprive me of the only friend I possess. My father knows that you are my benefactor, and that I live from your life, Mohammed. Look at me wonderingly, if you will; I am a sick child, and shall remain one, although years have made me a youth. And let me tell you, Mohammed, I shall never become a strong, healthy man. I have very weak lungs, inherited from my mother, and if it were not for you, if I had not been sustained by your healthy and vigorous mind and disposition, I should have died long since. Therefore, do not say that you have cause to be grateful to me. My father and I both have cause to be grateful to you, for my father loves me and rejoices in my life; and I, too, am very glad to live. The sun is so beautiful, it is so delightful to look at the deep-blue sky, the flowers are so fragrant, and finally it is such a pleasure to see you and to rejoice in your vigorous mind. I therefore owe every thing to you, Mohammed, and father and I know this, and are very thankful." "Those are sweet words, Osman," said Mohammed, bestowing an affectionate look on his friend. "You are so noble and generous, that you wish to make it appear that all the benefits I have received from you were bestowed by me. But Allah knows that I am profoundly grateful, and I am aware, too, that I have cause to be. Only consider, that to you and your father I owe all that I know. Have I not been allowed to share the instruction given you? Has not the scha-er, whom your father, as his narratives pleased us so much, kept here at a heavy expense, instructed me, too, and taught us both the history of our own and of all other countries? Have I not had the same opportunities as yourself of learning of all that is going on out in the world? Did I not share your instruction in all other branches? Have not the poems of our land been read to us, and have we not learned to understand the Koran, and receive into our souls the wise teachings of the prophet Mahommed? Have we not also learned the difficult science of algebra, and are we not familiar with the laws of justice? Do I not owe it entirely to the instruction which I have shared with you that I can also read the Koran and the books of the prophets and poets? Ah, Osman, I still remember with shame how I was sorrowfully compelled to confess to our teacher in our first lessons, that I knew and understood nothing; that I could not read, and did not even know the letters and figures." "And how rapidly you learned all this!" said Osman. "It surprised everybody, and I assure you the scha-rer is always charmed when he speaks of you, and he listens admiringly to what you say after the lessons are over. Yes, the scha-rer says, if you only would you could become one of the greatest of scholars, so rapid has been your progress; but-" "But one thing I have not learned", said Mohammed, interrupting him with a smile". You were about to begin the old story, were you not, Osman? 'But you never would learn to write,' you were about to say." "Yes, that is what I intended to say, my friend, and this one thing you must still learn: to use the pen and write down your thoughts on paper." "I cannot", cried Mohammed, impatiently; "my hands are too rough. The oar and the gun have made my fingers so stiff that I cannot use the pen." "Then let it be so. I will torment you about it no longer." said Osman, with a sigh. "You are my head and I am your hand. You think for me, and I shall write for you. So shall it be throughout our entire lives, for together we two must remain, and nothing can separate us. Is it not so, my friend? Say it, and say it often, that nothing can separate us. For you must know that if fate should tear you from me it would kill me, and that you cannot intend: therefore, we shall ever remain together, shall we not?" "We shall ever remain together," said Mohammed. "That is Osman, consider well what you are saying, for you are nearly eighteen years old." "As you are," responded Osman, smiling. "Only with this difference, that your father will give you with your eighteenth year, a beautiful aristocratic lady to wife, and establish a harem for you; while Mohammed Ali will never have either a sweetheart or a harem, but will always remain alone and unwedded." "Who knows?" replied Osman, laughing. "Those who assure us they will never love, says the poet, are the one's that fall in love soonest. One is easily surprised by the enemy who is not feared, and against whose snares the heart is not on its guard . . . This will be your fate, Mohammed. Your heart is not on its guard, and does not fear the enemy, love . . . But my poor heart has no cause to fear and be on its guard; let me repeat it, Mohammed; look at me. Can the poor, pale youth, with his wan countenance, his sunken breast, and his weak breath can he think of marrying? Or do you suppose I would care to become a subject of jest in the harem to the female slaves and servants, who would have to wait on the sick man? True, the tschorbadji, my father, has sometimes spoken of giving me an establishment of my own with my eighteenth year. I remained silent, for fortunately it is at present impossible. My establishment was to have been above in the upper saloons, and fortunately Cousrouf Pacha with his harem is still in possession of that part of our house. May he long remain there! I do not wish it on his account, or because I love him, but solely because my father must now delay the execution of this plan. May Cousrouf Pacha, therefore, long remain!" "I do not wish it," said Mohammed, gloomily; "he is a hard, proud man, better in his own estimation than anybody here in Cavalla, better even than the tschorbadji. I never saw a prouder man. And what right has he to be so? Has he not fallen into disgrace with the sultan? Did he not come here because he was banished from Stamboul? And do you know why he was banished? I will tell you: because--so have strangers who have come here reported, because he sought the death of his benefactor and master, the grand admiral, Hussein Pacha, in order that he might put himself in his place. Isn't this horrible, Osman? The grand-admiral had bought him as a slave, and then, because he loved him; made him free, and a wealthy man; he had him instructed, and persuaded the sultan to appoint him bey and pasha; and in return for all this, Cousrouf Pacha attempted to poison his faithful master and benefactor, and calumniated him to the grand sultan. Isn't this horrible?" "It certainly would be if it were true," said Osman; "yet I do not believe it. Much is told and said of the great and mighty, and they are often calumniated and accused of evil deeds which they have not committed. If it were so, do you not suppose the grand-admiral, Hussein Pacha, the mighty man, and the grand-sultan, would have punished him as he deserved? No, my father says differently, and has received from Stamboul other and more reliable information. Cousrouf Pasha has fallen into disgrace--that is a fixed fact--and the sultan has sent him into exile. Yet he did so against the wish of the Grand-Admiral Hussein. Do you know why? Consrouf has fallen into disgrace? Because he refused to go to Egypt as pacha, declaring that was equivalent to sending him into an open grave, as he should never return home from that land of rebels and Mamelukes. The sultan wished to send him to Egypt because he suspected him of having a secret amorous intrigue with one of the sultanas. The sultan had been told that Cousrouf Pacha was in the habit of being secretly conducted to the sultana's chamber at night by a female slave. As the sultan stealthily approached and opened the door of the chamber, he heard a rustling and whispering, but was so dark in the room that he could see nothing. He called slaves with torches to his assistance. They searched the room, but found nothing. The sultana stood on the balcony looking out into the starlit night. She met her husband with a smiling countenance, saying the night was so beautiful, she had gone out to gaze at the stars. The sultan, it is said, gnashed his teeth with rage, but kept silence, as it would have been unworthy of his dignity to threaten where he could not also punish. On the following morning he sent Cousrouf Pacha into exile to this place, my father tells me. But it is thought the sultan's anger will soon expend itself, and that his friend the grand-admiral, Hussein Pacha, will succeed in restoring his favorite to honor. Cousrouf Pacha, my father says, is already heartily tired of his tedious sojourn here, and has written to Hussein Pacha that he is now ready to go to Egypt as pacha." "Ready to revel in the glories of the world! Truly this great Cousrouf Pacha is very condescending, "cried Mohammed, in derisive tones. "He acts as though he were conferring a favor in accepting that for which another would give his heart's blood." "Would you, Mohammed? " asked Osman, smiling. "I would give my blood, drop by drop, only retaining enough to sustain life. Oh, to live there, to go to Egypt as the grand- sultan's pacha, to rule in that beautiful land, to make the rebels, the Mamelukes, and the beys, bow down in the dust. To vanquish them all, Osman, this is my dream of bliss, this is but no, I am still the same foolish boy, dreaming of impossibilities. See, there come those of whom we have been speaking," raising his hand and pointing to the hallway. "There comes the tschorbadji with Cousrouf Pacha. Let me go now, Osman, it is unpleasant to be in the vicinity of this haughty man; my heart always fiercely resents his insolence. Let me go!" Osman held him back. "See, they are looking at us, Mohammed. If you should go now, it would look as though you desired to avoid my father also, and that you assuredly do not wish. Moreover, the haughty gentleman might think that respect for him made you run away, as the lizard flees before the footstep of man. Stay!" "You are right," said Mohammed, "I shall stay." He straightened himself up, threw his head back proudly, folded his arms on his breast, and stood beside his friend's couch, gazing composedly at the two gentlemen who were advancing toward them, followed by a number of slaves. As they came nearer, the tschorbadji stepped hastily forward to greet his son with loving, tender words. Mohammed inclined his head with profound reverence before the father of his beloved friend. He then raised his head again, and firmly met the glance of the haughty Cousrouf Pacha, without any manifestation of deference whatever. The latter stepped forward, and greeted Osman with friendly words; he then turned, and fixed his dark-gray eyes on the young man who stood beside him, awaiting his deferential salutation. But Mohammed did not salute him. He still stood erect, his arms folded on his breast, beside his friend's couch. The pacha slowly turned to the governor. "Tell me, tschorbadji, who is this person? Your slave, is he not?" "No," cried Osman, rising partially from his couch, and anticipating his father's reply. "No, your excellency, he is not our slave, but my friend, my beloved friend, Mohammed Ali." "Your friend! A great honor for such a lad, too great an honor, I should think," said Cousrouf Pacha, directing a fierce glance at Mohammed, who still stood erect beside him. "Why should your excellency think so?" asked he in sharp, almost threatening tones. "Why is it too great an honor that the son of the tschorbadji calls me his friend? Has it not occurred that aristocratic gentlemen have elevated to an equality with themselves, and made friends even of, slaves, and purchased boys? I remember hearing the scha-er tell of a Circassian slave whom the grand- admiral, at Stamboul, purchased, and subsequently called his friend. He was not ashamed of him, although the lad called Cousrouf was, after all, only a slave." "In the name of Allah, I pray you, be still!" cried the tschorbadji, looking anxiously at Mohammed. "And why should he be still?" asked Cousrouf, in cold, cutting tones. "He is merely telling a story learned from the scha-er. You know, tschorbadji, it is customary to pay story-tellers, and give them a piaster.--Here, take your pay, you little scha-er." The pacha drew from his silken purse, filled with gold-pieces, a ducat, and threw it at the boy's feet. Mohammed uttered a cry of rage, and took up the gold-piece as though he intended to throw it in the pacha's face. But Osman held his hand, and begged him in a low voice to be composed. Mohammed struggled to compose himself. His face was pale, his lips trembled, and his eyes gleamed with wrath and hatred, as he glanced at the pacha; then his countenance became firm and composed. He beckoned to a slave who stood at a distance, to approach, and threw him the gold-piece. "The slave gives the slave his reward. Take it, thou slave!" A moment of silence and anxious suspense intervened, and then Mohammed's and the pacha's eyes met again in a fierce, piercing glance. The pacha then turned, and addressed the tschorbadji: "If he were my servant," said he, "I should have him taken out to the court-yard for his insolence. If he there received, as he richly deserves, the bastinado, I think he would soon become humble and quiet. The viper bites no longer when its fangs are extracted.--I tell you, tschorbadji, if he were my servant, he should now receive the bastinado." "And if you were my servant," exclaimed Mohammed, haughtily, "I should treat you in precisely the same manner, sir. The bastinado is very painful, I am told, and you probably know it by personal experience. But this you should know, too, sir, that here on the peninsula of Contessa, slaves only are chastised, and slaves only receive the bastinado. I, however, have never been a slave, but always a free man; and what I am and shall be, I am, I am proud to say, through myself alone. I have not been bought and bargained for, and I sleep better in my dark little but than others who were once slaves, and who, having risen through the favor of their masters, now repose on silken couches." "Tschorbadji Hassan!" cried Cousrouf, pale with anger, and hardly capable of restraining himself from striking the bold youth in the face with his own fist--"Tschorbadji Hassan, you shall punish the insolence of this servant who dares to insult me, Cousrouf Pacha. I demand of you punishment for this insolence." "I have broken no law, and there is no law that condemns me to punishment," said Mohammed, firmly and composedly. "Your excellency does me the honor to dispute with me, that is all. With us punishment is meted out according to the law only, and not at the pleasure of every grand gentleman." The tschorbadji stepped up to Cousrouf Pacha, and earnestly conjured him to show mercy to his son's friend, for his sake. "Consider that Osman is my only child, and my only happiness. Consider that he loves Mohammed as if he were a brother. The physicians say he would die if separated from Mohammed. Be merciful, and forgive the insolence provoked by your own overbearing words. I entreat you to be merciful, and to come away with me." He took Cousrouf's arm in his own, and drew him away, almost forcibly entreating him, with all the anxiety of a father's heart, to forgive the uncultured youth, who knew nothing of becoming deportment and polished manners. He was an untamed lion, unfamiliar with the gentle ways of the domestic animals. "And yet I wish I had this young lion in my power," said Cousrouf, gnashing his teeth with rage, as he followed the governor. "I should extract his teeth, and prove to the monster that he was not a lion, but only a miserable cat, to be trodden under my feet!" The tschorbadji drew him away more rapidly, that Mohammed might not hear him. He had looked back and perceived that Mohammed was standing still, gazing at them with a threatening eye, and, in reality with the bearing of a lion prepared for the deadly spring. When they had disappeared, Osman rose from his cushions, stood up, threw his arms around his friend's neck, and kissed his quivering lips. "I thank you, my hero, my king, my lion! You stood there like David before Goliath, and overthrew him in the dust. You made the insolent giant small, you hero. I thank you, my Mohammed!" CHAPTER XI THE REVOLT. The great square which lay in the centre of the village of Praousta resounded with wild outcries and clamorings. All the men of the place had assembled by the sea shore; they were generally honest, peaceful sailors, but today they were raging rebels roused to revolt against those in authority, and refusing obedience to the tschorbadji. Two pale, trembling men stood in the midst of the revolting crowd. They were evidently Turks, by their closely-fitting uniforms, and the scarlet fez on their heads; the short arms which hung at their sides showed them to be the kavassen, or the collectors of the tschorbadji. These collectors were always an abomination to the people of Praousta; they greeted them constantly with murmuring when they came to collect the taxes, and often, before now, the appeasing, tranquillizing words of the sheik had alone secured the payment of the sums demanded. Today, however, their long-restrained indignation had broken forth. Today, although the sea was so still and peaceful, no one had gone out to fish, for it had been fully determined that on this day they would refuse the demands of the governor's collectors. The collectors had gone to the village, suspecting nothing. The assessment had been brought by one of them several days before to the sheik, who had received it with a very troubled countenance. "A double tax? " he had said; "that will be most unwelcome to the men of Praousta." The messenger of the tschorbadji merely shrugged his shoulders. "They will pay it, nevertheless, as the men in Cavalla and other places have done. The money must be collected." Then, with the haughty bearing which, the officials of the tschorbadji always assumed, he retired. The sheik called together a council of the oldest men of the village and the ulemas, and informed them that the tschorbadji was compelled to lay a double tax on them at this time because, although his own expenses had been greater, he was obliged to forward the usual amount to Stamboul. New roads had been built; besides that, the tobacco-crop had failed, and new public buildings had been erected. All these expenses must be met, as well as the full amount for Stamboul, which must on no account be lessened. The men had declared at once, with angry words, that they would never pay the tax. On the morning of the day when the two collectors came from Cavalla, the men of the village assembled in the square as they had determined to do, and greeted them with loud and angry clamorings. "We will pay no double tax," cried Abdallah, the leader of the fishermen. "It is quite enough that we are obliged to pay any tax. What do the grand-sultan and his ministers do for us? Not one of them aids us when our crops fail or when we suffer from other misfortunes. When we have double crops, must we not always pay a double tax? But this year we have not even good crops. Our tobacco- crops have failed; our fishing-nets, with all the fish we had taken, have been lost in the storms. Tell us, then, for what reasons we must pay a double tax?" "The reasons, my dear fishermen," said the collectors--"the reasons are, that the tschorbadji commands it, and his commands must be obeyed, because the grand-sultan has made him your governor." "If those were reasons," shrieked the fishermen, "the tschorbadji could drive us from our huts, and take from us all that is ours. Those are no reasons; no, we will not pay the tax!" "You must, and you will!" cried the second officer. That was the signal for all the men to draw their knives with lightning-speed from their belts. They brandished them in their fists, pressing from all sides upon the two officers, and swearing to kill them if they did not go at once to Cavalla and announce what had occurred here. Some of the men rushed off to the dwelling of the sheik, while others hastened to bring the ulemas to the square. "Are we to pay the double tax, sheik? Speak for us; tell the officers what answer they must take to the tschorbadji." The sheik bowed kindly on every side as he made his way through the circle of armed men. All was profound silence as he came before the two officers, and all present listened in breathless silence to his words. "Lo, ye servants of justice!" exclaimed the sheik in a solemn voice, "I say, go up to the city, and inform the tschorbadji that he has demanded more than is just of the men of Praousta." An overwhelming, thundering huzza interrupted the sheik. "Speak on," was then the cry. "Let us hear what the good sheik has to say to us!" Once more there was breathless silence, and the sheik proceeded in solemn tones: "State to the tschorbadji that, by the will of Allah, we have been pursued by storms and misfortunes. We submit to the will of Allah, and pray to the prophet, to implore him to be merciful to us. If he hears our prayers, and the next harvest is blessed, and the fish are plentiful in our nets, and if then the purses of the people of Praousta are again filled, they will gladly pay the tschorbadji the accustomed tax, but not a double tax." "No, not a double tax!" shrieked the men. "We must pay, that the tschorbadji may live in pride and splendor with his aristocratic guest, who keeps a harem, and has himself borne about in a palanquin, or rides a splendid horse through the streets, while we have to content ourselves with humbly walking. No, we pay no more for the tschorbadji and his aristocratic guest. Long live our sheik, who stands by us! Go up, officers, and deliver the message he has given you." The officers, frightened and trembling, were well pleased to escape unharmed from the raging crowd. They passed hurriedly through the narrow passage which was opened for them on the way toward Cavalla. "Long live our sheik! Allah be praised for him!" cried the men, raising him and the three ulemas, in their enthusiasm, on their shoulders, and carrying them to their dwellings. "You stood by us, 0 sheik, and we wish to thank you," said Abdallah, speaking for all, when they had put the sheik down before his house. "I stand by you," answered the sheik, giving his hand to all, "but you must stand by each other. We have held a council through the entire night, and we have concluded that the demand is unjust, and have therefore, in the name of the people, declined to meet it. Now, however, you must not be intimidated; you must be firm. Then no one will dare to molest us." "We will be firm in what we have determined, and not give way," cried they all. "Long live the sheik and the ulemas!" "Now return quietly to your houses, and wait to see what the tschorbadji will do," said the sheik. "We shall see if he is content with your refusal." The men obeyed the order of the sheik, and went to their huts, to await there the next movement. The two officers returned, with rapid steps, to Cavalla. The governor was seated in the hall, with his favorite, his Osman, by whose side was Mohammed, who had yielded to the entreaties of his friend, and spent the last few months with him. Osman considered it a great kindness that Mohammed had, at last, agreed to his wishes, and had remained with him at night. When the governor looked joyfully at his son, and said he had never seen him so gay and happy, Osman smiled and nodded toward Mohammed. "You should thank Mohammed; as long as he remains in our house, the air seems purer and fresher to me. He alone understands how to make me well, and, if I could always have him with me, I would be the happiest of men." The tschorbadji offered his hand to Mohammed, bowing and smiling kindly. "Mohammed, I wish you would, at last, yield to the united prayers of my son and myself, and would consent to live in this house. Let me have two sons, and I shall be doubly rich." "In veneration I will be your son," replied Mohammed, pressing the governor's hand to his brow; "I will obey you in all things! One thing alone do not demand--that I shall irrevocably relinquish my freedom. Let me come and go at my pleasure. Love always draws me back to my Osman, even when, in the restlessness of my heart, I wander on the sea, or in the mountains, or remain solitary in my silent hut. Friendship for you has bound chains about my soul, and I must always return. Leave to me the feeling of independence, or I shall not be happy." Osman nodded smilingly to him. "It shall be as you wish, and we will never weary him again, my father, with our prayers. He will return to us, he says, and Mohammed always keeps his word. But look, father what can be the matter with these two officers who are hurrying toward us?" "They seem to have met with some misfortune; they look pale and excited, and are coming here without being announced," he said, rising from his cushions, and beckoning to the collectors, who had remained respectfully standing at the entrance, to come forward.-- "Well, what is the matter? You look as disturbed as if something dreadful had happened to you!" "Yes, governor, something dreadful has happened," they answered, bowing deeply. "We have been down to Praousta, as your excellency ordered, to collect the double tax." "And you have brought the gold with you, and given it to my treasurer?" "No, we have not brought it." "Not brought it!" exclaimed the tschorbadji, with the utmost astonishment; "I send you to collect the taxes, and you return without the money. Have thieves fallen upon you, and robbed you? My collectors have allowed the gold to be taken from them, and now dare to appear, empty-handed, before me!" "O governor, we are innocent," replied the men. "No thieves took the money from us, but the men of Praousta have revolted; they have assembled together in the market place, and have solemnly declared that they will never pay the double tax!" While they were making their report, Mohammed sprung from his seat, and listened breathlessly to them. "They refused to pay the tax," said the tschorbadji, in an angry voice. "And did you not go to the sheik and ulemas?" "The men of Praousta went themselves, and brought out the sheik and the ulemas, that they might speak decisively for all. We were to take their answer to the tschorbadji." "And they did this?" cried Mohammed, forgetting all proper reverence, and speaking to the men in the presence of the governor. "Yes, they did this," returned the collectors, breathing hard. "What did they say!" demanded the tschorbadji, excitedly. "The sheik looked at us contemptuously, and ordered us to state to the tschorbadji that Praousta had no thought of paying either the double or the simple tax." "And the ulemas?" asked Osman, rising from his couch, "did they confirm what the sheik said?" "Yes, sir, they confirmed what the sheik said," answered the collectors. "It is then an open revolt," cried the outraged tschorbadji. "They refuse obedience to my commands!" "Yes, they refuse to obey you!" repeated the collectors. "Every fisherman has armed himself with sword and knife, and swears to die sooner than pay this unjust tax, as they call it." "And you allowed yourselves to be frightened by such words," cried Mohammed, with flaming eyes. " And you did not fall upon them, sword in hand, to force them to their duty!" "We were but two against fifty!" "Two men against fifty cowards! I should think the men would have carried the day. But you are not men; you did not even draw your swords and fell this seditious sheik to the earth!" "The people would have torn us to pieces!" exclaimed the collectors, "if we had attempted it." "You would have perished in the fulfilment of your duty!" cried Mohammed. "Far better that, than to return home with the knowledge that you had acted as cowards!" Osman looked wonderingly at his friend, while the tschorbadji stood lost in thought, his countenance growing darker and darker. "This is revolt--rebellion!" he said, after a pause. "What shall I do? The men of Praousta are remarkable for their strength, as well as for their free and independent opinions." He ordered the collectors to leave the room, and await his call without; then paced thoughtfully up and down. The two young men dared not disturb him. "I do not know what to do," he said, after a long silence. "I have no military force, and in Praousta dwell more than fifty brave, bold men. You know I have only fifty collectors in my service in all the districts of the peninsula. I do not know where to begin; even if I had the men, I would very unwillingly use force. I believe the best thing I can do would be to go down, with a few servants, to the village, and seek, by kind words, to quiet the people, and induce them to pay the tax. What do you think, my son, Osman?" Mohammed listened, with flashing eyes, to the tschorbadji; and breathlessly awaited Osman's answer. But Osman only looked at his friend, and said to his father, "Ask Mohammed what he thinks." "Well, then, you speak, Mohammed," said the tschorbadji; "what do you think of my proposition?" "I think that such a thing should never be permitted. It does not become you to go and beg, when you should command, governor," he cried. "Will you empower me to collect the tax?" "How will you do it?" asked the tschorbadji, with a doubting smile. "That is my secret, governor. Give me authority to treat with the rebels, and give me, in addition, two collectors and six armed soldiers." "I will give you my small body-guard. They are eight in number, and I give you full authority to collect the tax." "I thank you, governor," cried Mohammed, with a beaming face. "You have given me a weighty commission, and you shall see that I will justify the confidence you place in me. I will go at once." "Do so, and I will order my men to obey you in all things," said the tschorbadji. "Farewell, my Osman," cried Mohammed his whole being as full of energy and determination as if he were going to battle. He bowed smilingly to his friend, and passed from the hall with a firm step. The collectors received the tschorbadji's order, to return to Praousta with Mohammed, with bowed heads and anxious countenances. "They will murder us." groaned one of them. "They are all armed with swords and knives, and they will tear our arms from us at once." "If they should tear your arms from you, and you do not fall upon them, with tooth and nail," cried Mohammed, with determined look, "you are nothing but cowards, and I will kill you with my own hand." The tschorbadji had, in the mean time, called his small body guard together, and commanded them to go down to Praousta with Mohammed, and to obey him in all things. "Come, then, my men, let us go," cried Mohammed. The tschorbadji detained him a moment. "Will you not take a weapon, you are entirely unarmed?" "Yes, I will take a weapon. Not that I fear for myself; no, I have no fear; but I will make one more combatant against the rebels. Give me a sword and a pistol." The tschorbadji himself brought both to him, and then bade him farewell. Mohammed, at the head of the eight soldiers and the two collectors, went down the mountain path to the village. There every thing had become quiet. Obeying the words of the sheik, the men had gone to their huts, and did not see that Mohammed and his followers had entered the great mosque, which stood at the entrance of the village. Then Mohammed bowed down within the holy of holies, and, turning his head toward Mecca, prayed in a low voice to the prophet "Thou seest, my lord and God, that I have raised my foot to take the first step on the way to my great future. Uphold my feet, let me not fall into the abyss of forgetfulness. Give me strength, that I may go forward without fainting. Be with me, Mohammed, thou great prophet. Permit thy stars to be a light unto me, and be merciful to the poorest of thy servants!" Then, raising himself proudly up, he ordered the soldiers to close three of the entrances of the mosque, and to leave only the principal door open. "Now draw your swords. Four of you remain with me in the mosque-the four others go down to the sheik and the ulemas. Inform them that an ambassador has come from the tschorbadji, to bring them an important message. Each of you three must bring one of the ulemas with you, and the fourth must bring the sheik here to me. Go at once, and return quickly.-And you," he said, turning to the four who remained behind, "swear to me, in the name of Allah and the prophet, that you will be hewn in pieces sooner than yield to the rebels!" They all swore, placing their hands upon their swords, that they would be hewn in pieces sooner than yield. Mohammed nodded graciously to them. "Good! When the soldiers bring the men we will surround them, and the rest will follow." Their hands upon their swords, the soldiers stood waiting beside the door. Mohammed remained silent and thoughtful in the middle of the mosque. He felt that a great, an important moment had come for him. He thought of his mother. "She hovers over me; she looks down, and sees her son enter on a new life. When I leave the mosque, I will be no longer the poor, despised boy; I will have proved myself a man. O my mother, look down on me, and pray to Allah to be merciful to me!" A dark shadow crossed the rays of the sun which fell through the open door. It was one of the soldiers who came in with the sheik. Mohammed did not step forward to meet him, as he should have done, out of respect for the old man, with his white beard. To-day he was no longer the poor boy, who must bow down before his superiors. He was himself one of the powers that be. He held his head aloft while the sheik approached. "I was summoned in the name of the tschorbadji," said the sheik, looking with astonishment at Mohammed. "It is very strange that I find here no one but Mohammed Ali, the son of Ibrahim Aga. Had I known that the tschorbadji had sent a boy to me, I would have required him to bring me the message." "I summoned you in the name of the tscborbadji, and in his name I stand here!" said Mohammed, proudly. "I am not a boy, as you are pleased to call me, but an acknowledged authority. I have received my authority from the tschorbadji, and I demand submission from you!" "Submission to you!" exclaimed the sheik, with a contemptuous glance. Mohammed's eyes flashed fiercely, as he placed his hand threateningly on his pistol. "Yes, you the sheik, must yield to me. See! there are the others who dared to revolt. -Guard the sheik well, you men; the ulemas also!" The latter had now approached, accompanied by the soldiers, and Mohammed informed them that he, in the name of the tschorbadji, insisted upon their gathering in the taxes. "We cannot and will not do it!" answered the sheik, proudly. "It is an injustice to demand the double tax, and it, would be folly to pay it. It is our duty to protect the community, and we will do it!" "Well, do as you will!" cried Mohammed, with flashing eyes. "Who dares to preach rebellion shall surely die!--Hold fast these rebels, my men, bind their hands behind their backs with their own scarfs, and lead them to the governor's house. There let their heads fall, that all may know how justice punishes the rebellious." "Help! help!" cried the sheik and the ulemas. "Help!" Their cries resounded far and wide, and, while the soldiers were binding the ulemas and the sheik with their own scarfs, the armed people came pressing forward to the open door of the mosque. Mohammed looked toward them with the raging glance of a lion. "Who enters here, meets his death!" he cried, in a voice of thunder. The men without shrunk back before the soldiers' gleaming weapons, and hastened to the other doors, but they found them all closed, only the one entrance was open, the one at which the collectors stood. Within lay the sheik and the ulemas, all bound, upon their knees, praying the men of Praousta to come to their help. The men sought once more to storm the entrance, and once more they were repulsed. "I swear, by Allah and the prophet, that the rebels shall die if they do not submit!" cried Mohammed, aloud. "Place your daggers at their breasts." The soldiers did as they were ordered, and their prisoners lay, with widely-extended eyes, and shrieks on their parted lips which they dared not utter, for fear the sword-points would pierce their breasts. Mohammed stood erect beside them, his hand on his sword. Suddenly a piercing, terrific cry arose from the midst of the crowd, and a slender female figure, clad entirely in white, the face concealed by a veil, rushed into the mosque. The soldiers dared not repulse her as they had done the men, as she flew past them toward that dreadful group. "My father, my father!" she cries, in wildly-imploring tones. "If you must die, I will die with you!" A strange tremor seizes on Mohammed; that wonderful voice thrills him to his very heart. The veiled one sinks down at his feet, and raises her arms pleadingly to him. "If you kill him, kill me also!" In her passionate gestures she seizes her veil with her clasped hands and tears it from her face. Mohammed saw now for the first time the youthful and beautiful face of the fair girl who was called the "Flower of Praousta." Her great black eyes were fastened imploringly on his. Her scarlet lips quivered as she repeated, "Oh, kill him not, but, if you must, then let me die with him!" He looked at her as if he felt some witchcraft at work, then suddenly bent down and drew the veil over her face, as if he dared no longer look on her beauty. "Leave this place, I do not fight with women," he said, and his voice sounded almost like that of a man. "Be merciful," she prayed, but there was a change in her voice also, it was no longer so humble, but trembled with inward emotion. He turned from her. "Return to your home," he said, in a commanding voice. "First, however, tell your father that he must submit himself, and prevail upon these rebels to become obedient. If he succeeds, I swear, in the name of Allah, that he shall return with you to his home. Speak to him, and prove the power of your words." "Return, Masa," said the sheik, in an unfaltering voice. "It was most improper for you to come here. You did it from love to me, therefore it must be pardoned. Now, however, I order you to go home, and remain there, as it becomes a woman. I, however, praise Allah; he alone must decide my fate, and the fate of all." "No, father, I cannot leave you," cried Masa, breathlessly, pressing her father's hands to her lips. "Remember, you are the Lord of my life, the light of my eyes! Remember that I have no one but you in all the world, and that your Masa is as solitary as in a wilderness when you are not beside her. Remember that, O my father!" "Enough!" interrupted Mohammed, in a harsh voice. "Enough words.-- You there, you men of Praousta, will you pay the tax, the double tax, as the tschorbadji has ordered?" The men, who had pressed close against the high porch outside the mosque, remained silent for a moment and looked hesitatingly before them. "Will you pay it?" repeated Mohammed. "You will, I am sure." "No!" cried the sheik, aloud. "You will not, you shall not, pay this tax!" "No," repeated the three ulemas. "No, you will not, you shall not, pay this tax!" Then suddenly, as if inspired by the bold words of the four prisoners, the men held themselves more erect, and, looking threateningly at Mohammed and at the soldiers, repeated what the ulemas had said. "No, we will not, we will not pay the tschorbadji the double tax! We will pay neither the double nor the simple tax!" "Good! you have spoken," said Mohammed. "Your fate is decided, and that of these men also!--Collectors, lock the door." Masa uttered a cry, and, rushing to Mohammed, clung wildly to his knees. "Mercy, lord, have mercy! Think of your own father, think of your mother! If you have a mother that you love, oh, think of her!" He pushed her roughly and hastily from him. That word pierced his heart like a knife, and still he dared not listen to it. There was a threatening murmur among the men, and several sought to press forward, but the collectors threatened them with instant death if they came forward a single step. Two of the soldiers approached the young girl to carry her out. "Let no one dare touch me, or I will throw myself on your swords!" she cried. "If I must go, I will do so. But on you be the blood of my father if it is shed! I tell you, if you murder him, I will die also; and if you have a father or a mother in heaven, I will accuse you, young man!" She uttered these words in a ringing voice, then flew toward the door. The soldiers pushed her out, and the collectors threw the iron-bound doors together. "Now I turn to you," said Mohammed, breathing more freely, and looking toward the sheik and the ulemas. "Will you murder us?" asked the sheik Alepp, as he looked with calm dignity at the young man. "No, if your blood must flow, so be it upon your own head," answered Mohammed, earnestly. "You alone shall decide your own life or death, and that of your three companions.--Come, soldiers, open this door; we go out this way." The soldiers obeyed, and opened the door on that side of the mosque which lay nearest the mountain stairway. The sheik and the ulemas, soldiers accompanying them, passed out, Mohammed in front of them, his drawn sword in his hand. Behind them came the collectors, with pikes in their hands. Silently they went on their way toward the mountain-path. The men who had waited, uncertain what to do, before the door of the mosque, now went round to the side, and with out-cries of rage pointed out to one another the road to the mountain-path. When Mohammed heard this outcry, he stood still, and motioned to the soldiers to go forward with the prisoners. "Remain at my side, collectors, we will cover the rear. Forward, now! go up the mountain." And while those went upward, Mohammed remained at the foot of the mountain. On either side the collectors, and in front of him all the fishermen of Praousta, more than fifty men, with threatening looks and burning eyes. But still, although they muttered and quarrelled, and even raised their fists, they dared not approach this young man, whose countenance was so determined, so full of energy, whose cheeks were so pale, and on whose mouth rested so threatening an expression. He must have appeared to them like the angel of death, and each one feared that if he approached he would sink down and die. Mohammed paid no attention to the threatening group of men. His eye looked beyond them--there, behind the men, where the veiled white figure stood, supported by two women. He looked toward her, and the ringing tones of the young girl's voice sounded in his heart, and he seemed to hear the words: "If you have a mother you love, then think of her!" He thought of her, and a deep sigh escaped his soul. But, still, he must be a man now. He had sworn to bring the rebels of Praousta back to obedience. He must keep his word, and he will do it. "If she has swooned away, she will awake and forget her grief. Women are readily grieved, but their grief is easily dissipated. She will know how to console herself; and as for me, I will forget her, I will never give her another thought." He said this defiantly to himself, and looked again at the men of Praousta, who were still standing irresolute and murmuring near the mosque, not daring to approach the three armed men. "He certainly would not have come alone, he would not dare to remain standing there, if his comrades were not concealed somewhere up there in the mountain." "Yes, they are standing there listening, and, if we should charge upon them, they would fire at us, and we should all be lost. No, we will be cautious; but this is certain, we will not pay the tax; the sheik has commanded it, and the ulemas have decided; therefore we will not pay." "No, we will not pay," repeated all the other men. No longer loud and defiant, but in low voices one to another, and their eyes turned suspiciously toward the three figures, and then up the mountain- path, toward the rocks behind which they believed the sharp-shooters were concealed. Mohammed looked also toward the mountain-path, and, seeing that the prisoners and their guard had reached the top of the mountain, he turned toward the fishermen "Ismail, Marut, Berutti," he cried, "do you not recognize me, you know Mohammed Ali, son of Ibrahim?" "Yes, we know you, and we would not have believed that the son of Ibrahim Aga could have become a spy upon his old friends." "I am not a spy, I am only a servant of that law and justice which you wish to violate. Step nearer, and listen to what I have to say to you." They came cautiously, hesitatingly, a few steps nearer, and again looked anxiously toward the mountain. "What have you to say, Mohammed, son of Ibrahim Aga?--but remember that one who--" "Silence!" commanded Mohammed; "I shall remember what is necessary, and I do not need the advice of rebels and rioters. I did not call upon you to speak, but to listen to what I have to say. Hearken, men of Praousta, in the name of the tschorbadji! I give you until early to-morrow morning to decide; if, at the hour of second prayers, you have not sent three men to the palace of the tschorbadji, double the amount that you have formerly paid, the sheik and the three ulemas will lose their heads for your disobedience, and you will be the murderers of four of the first men of Praousta." He slightly lowered his gleaming sword, and, as a farewell greeting, turned and walked up the mountain-path, not swiftly, not hastily, as if he feared the men would fall upon him, but slowly, step by step, not even glancing back to see if the crowd were following him, quietly, sword in hand, and in front of him the two collectors. BOOK II. PARADISE AND HELL. CHAPTER I THE FLOWER OF PRAOUSTA. The tschorbadji was in great uneasiness since Mohammed had gone on his expedition to the rebellious village, and his son was profoundly troubled and apprehensive. He could not endure to remain in the broad hall which led to the garden, but followed his father to the great saloon which commanded a view of the court-yard through which Mohammed must come. He laid himself upon the divan, while his father walked up and down with heavy steps, pausing occasionally at the window looking into the court-yard, and then rapidly continuing his walk. Suddenly the door opened, and two slaves appeared in magnificent Grecian costume, richly embroidered, and placed themselves at the open door. Then a third stepped forth, and announced in a loud voice, "His excellency Cousrouf Pacha!" His excellency entered, splendidly dressed, in a long velvet mantle, trimmed with rare fur, in his turban a star of the most brilliant diamonds flashed, and in the Persian shawl folded around his waist glittered a dagger, studded with costly gems. It was a splendid sight--the tall, proud man as he stood in the widely-opened door; the richly-dressed slaves at his side, and behind him his secretary, in white, gold-embroidered robe, holding the staff aloft. The tschorbadji stepped toward him with a respectful air and a forced smile. Osman arose slowly from the divan, and bowed profoundly before his excellency. The sharp glance of the pacha read at once, in the face of father and son, that he was unwelcome, and told them so in a soft, friendly voice. The tschorbadji protested, in flowery words and flattering terms, which he knew would please Cousrouf Pacha, that he was unutterably happy, inexpressibly flattered and delighted, at the presence of his excellency. Cousrouf Pacha replied with a gracious inclination of his stately head, and appeared to find it perfectly natural that every one should feel delighted when his excellency approached. "Tell me, tschorbadji," he said, taking the place of honor on the divan, and motioning the slave to bring him his gold-and-diamond- studded chibouque--" tell me, tsohorbadji, is it true that the village of Praousta is in revolt?" "Unfortunately, your excellency, it is true," sighed the tschorbadji; "the men have revolted, they will not pay the double tax." "Dogs! dogs! that are barking a little," said Cousrouf, with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. "I think, tschorbadji, you would do well to quiet them quickly." "I hope my messenger will succeed in repressing the revolt, in quieting the men, and in inducing them to do their duty." "What!" exclaimed Cousrouf, with a contemptuous curl of his lip, "you intend to make terms with the rebels?" "I shall try to induce the men to do their duty." "You surely do not consider that rebels are criminals most deserving of death," said Cousrouf, with flashing eyes. "Dogs are shot when they are mad, and rebels are but mad dogs." "I beg your pardon, excellency," said the tschorbadji, his gentle face assuming a severer expression than it had yet worn before his excellency--" I beg your pardon, but this small island is not so rich in men that we can afford to shoot them like dogs, and, moreover, excepting this, the people are good, industrious, and willing to provide for their families. This year they have had a bad harvest, and but little profit, and were incensed at having to pay double taxes." "And why double taxes?" asked Cousrouf Pacba, with a contemptuous smile. "Do not ask me, excellency," replied the tschorbadji, with a bow; "one portion of the taxes goes as usual to Stamboul, into the coffers of his highness; the other portion--" "Ah, I understand," said Cousrouf, with a proud smile; "the other portion is, through an order from Stamboul, destined for me. That is so, is it not, tschorbadji?" "Yes, excellency, if you wish to know the truth, it is." "And these dogs refuse to pay for the benefit of Cousrouf Pacha, the grand-vizier of his highness, the friend and comrade of the Admiral Hussein, and you will not shoot them down like mad dogs, tachorbadji; you wish to negotiate with these audacious men, who mock at my greatness in refusing me the tribute! These slaves believe that, because Cousrouf Pacha condescends to live in this desolate place--this miserable nest they can mock and deny me their respect with impunity. But I tell you, tschorbadji, I tell you, and all the men of Praousta and Cavalla, you shall remember this day! If these men do not submit, if they do not pay what they ought to pay, then you may all beware, for a day will come, and, by Allah, it is not far off, when Cousrouf Pacha will leave his exile with new honors! Remember this, tschorbadji, and act accordingly." "I shall remember it, excellency," said the tschorbadji, respectfully; "I have never failed in reverence and respect to the noble guest whom his highness graciously sent here; I accepted it as a favor, and during my entire life I shall remember the days that it pleased Cousrouf Pacha to become a guest in my house." The words of the tschorbadji, humbly and respectfully as they were spoken, rankled in the sensitive soul of the proud pacha. He started, and his brow darkened. He had partaken of the tschorbadji's hospitality, and had never thanked him for it, and never returned it. The tax that the men of Praousta were commanded to pay, was by an order from Stamboul, destined for Cousrouf Pacha, and this was a sign to the proud man that his sun was in the ascendant, that he would soon be released from his exile, and therefore he was defiant and haughty toward the tschorbadji. At the angry words of the pacha, Osman, the usually mild and gentle youth, arose from the divan, and placed himself at his father's side, as if he wished to defend the tschorbadji from the proud and mocking words of the stranger. The father felt and understood what was passing in the youth's soul; he laid his hand softly upon his shoulder. "Calm yourself, my son; may the rights of a guest be as sacred to you as to me--his excellency has been our esteemed guest for three years, remember this, and forget that he was a little hard just now. Allah be with him! Allah make all our hearts tender and gentle!" "You must remember, pacha, that here, in our small portion of the great world, we cannot make so great and magnificent a display as you can make in your brilliant career in the great city of Stamboul. We have no soldiers here except my small body-guard of eight men; the rest of our small military force is now stationed elsewhere. It would be very unfortunate if I should incite to violence the men who, even if armed with knives only, would still be able to overpower us all. It will therefore be better to negotiate with them than to proceed to extreme measures." "Well, what course have you decided upon?" asked Cousrouf, in a milder tone. "Mohammed Ali, the friend of my son, Osman, has pledged himself to bring the rebels to reason; I have given him my body-guard of eight men, and he has gone down to Praousta." "Gone to this seditious village, where more than fifty strong men are in revolt!" exclaimed Cousrouf. "Truly such daring reflects honor upon the young lad." "Upon what young lad?" asked Osman, in seeming surprise; "of whom does your excellency speak?" "Of the young lad your father spoke of; he who volunteered to settle this difficulty. Is he your slave, or your freedman, of whom you make a companion because unfortunately you can find here no better social intercourse?" "He is my friend," said Osman, in a calm, firm voice, "my best friend, and I trust that all who honor my father's house with their visits will observe a proper respect to the friend of his son. I expect this, and, if need be, will require it, for--" "Here comes Mohammed!" cried the governor, rejoicing at any occurrence which interrupted his son's speech. "Here comes Mohammed, and with him four prisoners. By Allah! it is the sheik and the three ulemas of Praousta! The soldiers are conducting them; their hands are bound behind their backs. Mohammed is a bold fellow; he has made prisoners of four of the richest and most influential men of the village, and is bringing them here. I must speak with him." The governor arose hastily, but Cousrouf Pacha seized his arm and held him back forcibly. "Tschorbadji, it becomes your ambassador to seek you and give an account of his mission. I myself will hear him." Still holding the tschorbadji's arm, he stepped to the divan, seated himself, and drew the governor down beside him. And now the door was opened, and Mohammed, with glowing cheeks and ardent eyes, holding his sword aloft, entered the room. He advanced rapidly across the spacious saloon to the tschorbadji, lowered his sword before him, and bestowed a kindly glance on his friend Osman, who came forward to greet him. With a few hasty words he explained to the tschorbadji the events which had taken place; only when he spoke of the young girl did his voice falter, but he made slight mention of her, and passed on to narrate the conclusion of his bold adventure. "So you have really made prisoners of four of the first men of Praousta and brought them here!" said the tschorbadji, completely taken by surprise. "Tell me what shall be done with them? It surely cannot be your intention to put these men to death if the tax is not paid?" "Most certainly, sir, that is my intention," said Mohammed, throwing back his head proudly. "They are all rebels, and the ulemas and the sheik were their leaders--these, sir, were the men who counselled the people not to pay the taxes. It is according to law that the heads of the leaders of a rebellion should fall, and fall their heads shall, for I have sworn it; if three men are not sent to- morrow morning from Praousta, at the hour of prayer, with the double tax, the heads of the prisoners shall answer for its payment!" "But this is impossible," said the tschorbadji, whose tender heart was moved by Mohammed's threatening words. "This is impossible; I cannot allow these men to be executed." "I have sworn it shall be done, and it must be done, unless you wish to see your authority overthrown." "But how can it be done?" exclaimed the tschorbadji, pale with anxiety and horror. "Who will put these men to death? I have no executioner." "If necessary," said Mohammed, his eyes flashing with resolve--"If necessary, I will behead them myself." "Bravely said!" cried Cousrouf Pacha, rising from his seat. "Truly, Mohammed Ali, I begin to be pleased with you." "That, sir, is more than I desire," said Mohammed, calmly; he gave one threatening glance at the proud pacha, and then turned quickly to the tschorbadji. "Remember, sir, that you gave me absolute authority to act as I thought best. I gave you my word of honor to bring back these rebels to reason and obedience. In return, you promised that I alone should decide the matter. It must therefore be so. I have sworn to the men of Praousta that, unless they submit, the heads of the sheik and the three ulemas shall fall; and I repeat, so must it be, even if they fall by my hand, if to-morrow, at the hour of prayer, the gold is not produced." "Then may Allah mercifully bring the rebels to repentance!" sighed the tschorbadji. "May they submit to your decision, and bring the gold at the appointed time. Until then we must put the prisoners in some place of safety. Give orders, Mohammed, that they be taken to the prison, and carefully guarded." "And why to the prison, sir?" asked Mohammed, quietly. "Here in the middle of the court-yard is a space encircled with an iron railing." "So there is," replied the tschorbadji, "it was prepared as a cage for my beautiful lion, and he had lived within that railing for four years, when some miserable wretch, who knew I loved the noble animal, poisoned it." "Well, I think the cage your lion occupied is large enough to afford lodging for one night to the sheik and the ulemas." "What! confine them here in the open air?" "Yes, sir, that is what I suggest. "Cannot the iron door be locked?" "Yes, it can be locked; the key is in the palace." "In this way we can spare your body-guard a weary watch," said Mohammed. "I will conduct them to their prison. It seems to me best that the prisoners be placed where all the world can see them; all the passers-by can here look upon these men and take warning how the tschorbadji punishes rebels and rebellions. I alone will keep watch over these prisoners, and explain to all who pass why they are here; they will then go down to Praousta, and announce that the block is prepared upon which the heads of these men will fall early on the morrow, unless the taxes are paid." "Mohammed, you are terrible!" murmured Osman, as he gazed with amazement and anxiety into the eyes of his friend. "You are right," whispered Cousrouf Pacha, aside; "this is a bold, brave youth, and something can be made of him. He is ambitious and daring. The time may come when he would be of use; I will try to win him over to my interests." Mohammed heard nothing more; he had already gone to the court-yard and opened the door of the cage. He now ordered the soldiers to conduct the prisoners inside the enclosure. Calmly and silently they entered. Not one word had been uttered by them since they left Praousta; with heads erect, and with proud bearing, they entered their prison. "Force conquers even the philosopher. He who feels himself in the right is silent, and utters no complaint," so exclaimed the sheik in a loud voice, as he was thrust inside the enclosure by the soldiers. The ulemas bowed their heads and followed him. "Allah be praised, and may the prophet look down in mercy upon the most insignificant of his creatures!" The door of their prison closed behind them; Mohammed took the key and concealed it about his person. "Now," said he, "pray and meditate upon your crimes and their punishment. I will myself make known to the men of Praousta that they may find you here, and all who wish can come to see you. It rests with you to tell the people that they must submit to the law, or else bring your heads to the block. Think well of this, and rest assured the tschorbadji will confirm what he has declared through me. To-morrow, at the hour of prayer, must the double tax be paid by the men of Praousta, or your heads shall be placed on the cliffs where everybody can see them, and your bodies thrown upon the rock Bucephalus, that the vultures and ravens may feed upon them." CHAPTER II MASA The sea lay like a sleeping lion reposing after a conflict, and curled its waves dreamily upon the mountain-rock Bucephalus. The sun was burning hot, and no breath of air cooled the atmosphere, and not one cloud or shadow afforded protection from the glowing rays of the sun, which fell full upon the uncovered space within which the sheik and the ulemas had been confined since early in the morning. But they stood firm, and no complaint escaped their lips. With their heads turned to the east, they knelt and prayed, their whole bearing expressing dignity and high resolve. At the command of Mohammed, one of the governor's collectors was sent to Praousta. He was instructed to place himself in front of the mosque, call the people together by the sound of the tomtom, and announce to them, in the name of the tschorbadji, that all who would see the victims of their rebellion should come up the mountain, but without arms, and only three at a time. They should be allowed to enter the court-yard of the palace, where they could see that the prisoners were still alive, and that their lives and liberty rested solely with the men of Praousta. In conformity with this proclamation, the men of the village came up to the palace in threes. Above, upon the rock, knelt a young girl, closely veiled. The men of Praousta knew well that this was Masa, the sheik's daughter. They bowed low before her, and greeted her with the greeting of peace. She raised her trembling hands toward them, exclaiming: "Have pity on my unhappy father! Submit to the law! Yield to necessity! O save my father, and do not make me an orphan!" The men of Praousta made no reply; they bowed their heads silently, and passed on, with clouded countenances, to the iron cage in which the governor's lion had once been confined, and where now stood the sheik and the ulemas, thus made wild beasts of; they, the best and wisest men of Praousta, the representatives of the people, made a public spectacle! The sheik and the ulemas beckoned to each man who passed, and besought him to hold fast to his resolution not to pay the new tax. "If you yield now, and pay twofold, soon they will demand threefold; they wish to impoverish us and exact our heart's blood, but we will not submit, and we command you to stand firm!" "But you, O fathers of our community, what will be your fate?" "That Allah has determined," replied one of the ulemas. "Not a bird falls to the ground, not a worm is crushed, by the careless foot of man, without his knowledge. He who protects the spiders in the trees and in the corners of the rooms, the birds of the air, and the monsters of the deep, will also care for us. Allah be praised!" "Allah be praised!" echoed the men, as they turned their steps toward Praousta. The maiden still knelt upon the rocky stairway and raised her hands in wild entreaty to the passers-by. "Yield, yield, I implore you! Do not deliver over your wisest and best men to a bloody death!" Mohammed stood in the hall, behind a pillar, listening earnestly to the words spoken by the prisoners to the men of the village. From time to time Osman joined him, and begged him not to act the part of guard over the prisoners, but to come into the saloon and rest upon the divan. "They can not escape; the railing is high, and the gate securely locked. Come, grant me the pleasure of your company, and let me seek to soften your heart, and incline you to mercy." "Impossible," said Mohammed, sternly. "If we yield now, the tschorbadji's authority is forever lost." "But," said the tschorbadji, who joined them at that moment, "what is to come of all this, if the prisoners do not submit?" "Their heads shall fall upon the block to-morrow morning, at the hour of prayer," said Mohammed, in so firm and clear a voice that his words were heard by Cousrouf Pacha, who had just entered the hall. "He is right, tschorbadji," said he, bowing his head with great dignity. "Yes, he is right! If the rabble are rebellious, let the heads of some of them fall! Order and law must reign! Many-headed is the hydra, and it is no great misfortune if a few of their brawling heads are hewn off!" "Allah is great! His will be done," said the tschorbadji. "I do not wish the court-yard of my dwelling to be stained with blood. I do not wish to rule harshly and unmercifully in the evening of my life, after governing my people so many years by mild and gentle rule." "There you are wrong," said Cousrouf Pacha; "mildness and gentleness do not become a ruler; only by severity and an unbending will can he exalt himself to power, and, even when he reaches the goal, he must trust to arms, if he is to maintain himself." "And if with sword and dagger he reaches the throne," said Osman, looking gently and reproachfully at the proud pacha, "may he then hope to hear music and hymns of praise, or must he not then only expect to hear cries of anguish uttered by those over whose heads he strode to power? He could not then expect to see a fair and blooming land, but a land full of corpses and blood! No, no, Cousrouf Pacha! I desire not to reach that height. I will rather dwell in the valleys-in the shadow of the cliffs on the sea shore-and gather shells, and revel in the gladness and delight of a modest and quiet existence." "And you, Mohammed," said the pacha, smiling scornfully, "what is your ambition? Will you gather shells upon the sea-shore with Osman, or will you climb the heights with me to a splendid goal?" Mohammed turned his eyes entirely away from the pacha, nodded to his friend Osman, and said: "I will tread my own path alone. Where fate will lead me I know not. I seek no companionship, and will follow no man's lead. From time to time, I may turn aside from my path, and wander, with joy and gladness, with my only friend, on the sea- shore, and seek for shells, and revel in the delights of a modest and quiet life." With a kindly glance, Osman extended his hand, as if in a grateful greeting. The men of Praousta continued to pass before the iron cage, and the sheik still appealed to them to be firm, and not to sacrifice their rights. Suddenly the sun disappeared, and night came down upon the earth. The prisoners said their evening prayers in a loud voice, and when, from the minarets of Praousta, the call of the muredin rang out on the air, the prisoners commenced singing, firmly and devoutly: "God is great! There is no God but our God, and Mohammed is his prophet! Come to prayer! Come to be healed! God is just! There is no God but our God!" And from the village of Praousta the solemn hymn was echoed back: "God is just! There is no God but our God!" Then all was silent, and the night, like a silver veil, wrapped the earth in its folds. In the house of the tschorbadji all was still; it was the custom to retire early and to rise with the sun. God, in His goodness, created the night for repose. The moon is a sacred lantern, which God hangs over a sleeping world, and the stars are the eyes of the guardian angels watching over the helpless sleepers. Therefore, is it well to go to rest with the setting sun. Profound silence reigned in Cavalla, in the palace of the governor, and in the village of Praousta the men were at the mosque, praying that Allah would vouchsafe them wisdom for the duties of the coming day. To the slender female kneeling in the mosque they whispered: "Soften your father's heart, maiden, and beseech him to allow us to obey this hard command." Did she understand? Was there comfort or encouragement in these words? She bowed her head still lower, and sobbed beneath her veil; she knew too well her father's immovable will, and that he preferred death to submission. The court-yard was quiet. The tachorbadji had offered to place two sentinels before the gate of the enclosure, but Mohammed declined the offer. "I alone must complete that which I alone began. I pledged you my honor, tschorbadji, that I would subdue this rebellion, and I alone will guard the prisoners. I will trust no man but myself. Who knows but that the men of Praousta may try to storm the enclosure? They are crafty and deceitful. I know them well, and will myself guard the prisoners." "Allow, at least, some of the soldiers to relieve you during the night in this hard service." "No service which honor and duty require is hard," said Mohammed, proudly. "Let the soldiers sleep, I will keep watch." Osman gave him a long and searching look, as if he would read the purpose of his soul; and, strange to say, Mohammed turned his face aside to avoid his friend's keen eye. Was it only from a sense of honor and duty that Mohammed undertook the lonely watch? Or did he hope the clear moonlight would reveal some other beautiful picture than the golden plateau, and the great shadows thrown upon it by the palace? When night had fully settled down upon the earth, Mohammed crept forward in the shadow of the palace, to a large rock which stood at the entrance of the court-yard; there he concealed himself, and waited. What was he waiting for? From that point he could overlook the courtyard, and, by leaning forward, he could also see the stairway in the rock. Why did he turn his head in that direction so often? Why did he suddenly shrink back, and why did his heart tremble as he saw a white figure, illuminated by the moon, advancing? Mohammed cowered still lower behind the rock. Probably she did not see him, and supposed the moon and the stars only had seen her glide softly through the gateway, and into the court-yard. The veiled virgin now walks through the court-yard to the iron railing; kneels down upon the mosaic pavement, and, raising her hands, whispers softly: "Father, my beloved father, do you hear your daughter's voice?" Mohammed bows his head, and listens in breathless suspense, his heart throbbing wildly. "I hear you, my daughter," replied the sheik, in a quiet tone. "I expected you, for I know my Masa's heart well." "Masa," murmured Mohammed; "what a beautiful, glorious name! It falls like music upon my ear, and makes my heart beat strangely. What does this mean? Allah, protect thy servant!" Against his will, he still listens to this heavenly voice that now entreats her father to yield, to submit to the inevitable. But the sheik, as she continued her supplications, commanded silence, and forbade her to burden his heart with her tears. "Life, my daughter, is but a short span; but eternity is long, and woe to those who have not done their duty during that short period! They will suffer for it throughout eternity, for Allah is strong in his wrath, and just in his punishment. I have sworn that I will watch over the welfare of my community while I live, and Sheik Alepp will keep his word to the end of his life." "But, father, beloved father!" urged the maiden, "you have also sworn to be a parent and a guardian to me all the days of your life. Keep this oath, too; save your life, in order to save mine. Then you must know, my father, that Masa will not remain on the earth if you leave it. Your child has naught upon this earth but you; early was my mother taken, and it has become lonely in Sheik Alepp's harem. My father said: 'I will not take in a strange woman: no second wife shall ever fill the place in my heart that has been wholly consecrated to my dear Masa. My only child shall not have to suffer from the severity and caprice of a strange woman.' This was nobly said and nobly done, my father, to devote your entire life to your child, and to the duties of guardian of your people. But hear me, father: what is to become of your daughter when she is left alone upon the earth? Sorrow and want will be my portion, and I should wither away unseen, and be trodden under foot upon the wayside, without one sympathizing voice to bemoan my early death." Mohammed still crouched within the shadow of the cliff, his eyes sparkling like the stars in heaven, but the maiden saw them not, nor could she know the exultation in his heart. "You should not wither away unseen and unlamented upon the wayside. I would draw you to my bosom, and there you should bloom in fragrance, my heavenly blossom, and my whole life would lament over you if you should leave the earth." In the silence of the night the youth still listened to the conversation between father and daughter--to the tender entreaties of the maiden, to the father's stern and earnest words; he heard also the whispering voices of the ulemas, who, awakened by the conversation, betook themselves to repeating prayers, in order that they might not hear what passed between father and daughter at this solemn moment. Now Masa ceased speaking; a few stifled sobs, a few trembling words only, could be distinguished. But the sheik remained firm and unyielding. "I cannot, Masa. Right gladly would I remain and live with you, and gladden my eyes with your lovely countenance, gladly would I still continue to hear the voice that call to me in the loved tones of my Aga, and is to my ear the sweetest music, but the claims of duty are paramount, and what duty commands man must perform. Allah so wills it. Allah be praised! The sheik cannot counsel his people to yield to force; he must wait patiently in the path of his duty. The result is in Allah's hand, and Allah is great and mighty. Allah il Allah!" "Allah il Allah!" repeated the three ulemas. Rising from his knees, the sheik now proceeded to give, with a loud voice, the second call, the ebed, for he saw that rosy streaks were beginning to shoot out over the horizon, and he knew that the sun would rise from out the sea in an hour; it was therefore time to pronounce the ebed. "I praise the perfection of God who endures for ever and ever, the perfection of the living, the only and the highest God. The perfection of the God who, in his great kingdom, takes unto himself neither wife, nor an associate, nor one who resembles him, nor one who is disobedient, nor a substitute, nor an equal, nor a descendant--his perfection I praise; and praised be his name! He is a God who knew what was to be, before it became what it is, and what has been; and he is as he was in the beginning. His perfection I praise, and praised be his name; he is a God without equal. There is no one who is equal to the good God; there is no one who is equal to the great God; there is no God beside thee, O God, whom we must adore, praise, desire, and glorify! I praise the perfection of him who has made all creatures, who preserves and provides them with food, and has determined the end of the lives of his servants. O God, the good, the gracious, the great, forget not one of them." The ulemas now arose, and with powerful voices began the following monotonous chant: "I praise the perfection of Him who by his power and greatness causes pure water to flow from the solid rock; the perfection of Him who spoke to our master, Moses, on the mountain, whereupon the mountain crumbled to dust out of fear of God, whose name be praised as the one and the only one. There is no God but God, and he is a righteous judge. I praise the justice of the first, peace and comfort be with you; and you of the friendly countenance, O ambassador of God, peace be with you, and with your family and companions, O you prophet! God is great, and God favors, and preserves, and glorifies the great prophet Mohammed. And may God, whose name be blessed and praised, be pleased with you, O Mohammed, and with all those favored with the wine of God! Amen!"[Footnote: See the Koran.] "Amen! Amen! Amen!" repeated the ulemas, and the maiden whispered it after them. And, within the shadow of the cliff, Mohammed Ali, who had reverently repeated the ebed in a low voice, murmured Amen. "And now, my daughter," said the sheik, in a loud voice, "I command you to go down to Praousta, and to conceal yourself within the harem of my house, and there to await in patience and submission, as beseems a woman, the events of the morrow, the day of the Lord and of the judgment. Go, my child, and the blessing of Allah be with you!" Mohammed looked forth from behind the cliff, and beheld the veiled figure bending down and grasping the old man's hand through the bars of the cage; he then heard the father's parting blessing, and his daughter's low sobs. Now she arose, and, bathed in the full lustre of the moon, glided softly through the court-yard. She seemed to him like one of the welis, or spirits blessed of God, as she swept past the cliff behind which Mohammed stood, and passed with inaudible footsteps toward the rocky stairway. CHAPTER III THE FIRST DAY OF CREATION. Noiselessly, her feet scarcely touching the ground, the veiled figure swept onward. The light of the moon enveloped her as with a silver veil, and the stars gazed at her wonderingly, as if to follow with their eyes the lovely being who walks on in solitude through the darkness of night. She did not fear the solitude, for the welis guarded the innocent maiden, and kept from her the evil spirits and ghins. The solitude had no terrors for her, but she shrank back with alarm when the moon suddenly cast a long shadow across her pathway. The shadow of a man! She stood still for a moment in a listening attitude. "Allah protect me!" she murmured, as she drew her veil more closely about her and walked on. She had almost reached the stairway when the shadow came close to her side, and a hand was laid on her shoulder. "Stay, Masa," whispered a voice. She trembled and sought to walk on, but her feet seemed chained to the ground. She thought the ghins were detaining her, and she prayed to Allah from her inmost soul to release her from their dread enchantment. "Fear me not, Masa," said a kindly voice; "listen to me. I am no enemy." "I do not fear you," said she, in low, faint tones. "I fear neither man nor the evil ghins, for the welis guard me, and my mother's eyes watch over me. Allah, too, is always with me wherever I go, by night or day. Yet I know that you are my enemy, because you are my father's enemy." "Oh, do not say this! Your words pierce my heart." "But yet you are my enemy, for you are my father's enemy; I know you, I recognize the fierce youth who took my father prisoner at the mosque this morning. It was you! I know you well, and my heart is breaking. You are the author of my father's misery. You do evil, and evil thoughts fill your heart. Let me pass, do not detain me! Let me return to my father's house. Masa must obey her father and master. Remove your hand from my shoulder. It does not beseem a stranger to touch a chaste maiden with his impure hand. Let me pass." "You say I am your enemy, your father's enemy. Believe me, Masa, I am not your enemy, not your father's enemy. An evil destiny has ordained that Mohammed Ali should be the instrument, the sword of justice, that he should grieve and wound her he would so gladly shield. The evil ghins have also ordained that I should carry out the law and assume a threatening attitude toward your father. I must submit to what Allah ordains, and proceed in the line of my duty. But, Masa, you shall know that I am neither yours nor your father's enemy. You must know that I would shed my heart's blood to make undone that which I have commenced. O Masa, had I sooner beheld these eyes, that now look upon me with the brilliancy of the stars in heaven, had I sooner beheld the countenance that now beams upon me with the brightness of the young day, never would my mother's son have assumed a threatening attitude toward your father, never would Mohammed have undertaken to enforce the law against him. True, the evil ghins have brought this about, but hearken to me, Masa, and consider well that your father's welfare is at stake." "I will not hear you," said she, tremblingly. " I swear, by the spirit of my mother, that I have nothing to conceal before Allah and the prophet. Do not wound me, Masa, with your alarm. You seemed to me this morning the loveliest of women; until then Sitta Khadra was her son's only love. You must know that when she had died, Mohammed Ali fled into solitude and intended to take his own life. But in the solitude, Allah said to him: 'The life I have given you, bear with manfully, and take upon yourself the sufferings I see fit to visit upon you.' "I bowed submissively to his commands; I left my solitude and raised myself by my sorrow as by a pillar. But in you I seemed to see my mother's spirit; then pain vanished from my heart, and my mother seemed to be regarding me through your eyes. Therefore, Masa, have I followed you. I have come to say that which brings the blush to my inmost soul, that which the ear of no other human being shall ever hear. In the name of my mother, I beseech you, do not let it be here upon this open path where men may pass, and which the foot of man has desecrated. In the name of the mother you love so well as you this morning declared in the mosque, and in the name of my mother whom I have loved as few sons have loved their mothers, in the name of the moon, and in the name of the golden stars that glitter above us, I entreat you, mount with me to the summit of the rock. There will Mohammed speak words to you that his tongue has never uttered before. There he will advise you how to save your father, and help the men of Praousta." She looked up to the crest of the rock, bathed in the soft moonlight. "You would lead me up there?" murmured she. "I will lead you safely, or follow you, as the slave follows his mistress. The way is steep, but your feet are active as those of the gazelle. I now remember having sometimes observed your white figure and your flying footstep. Lightly like the dove have I seen you flit from rock to rock, and I have followed you with reverence. Yes, I have long known you; I have often seen you, and I know that the white dove need only spread her wings to flutter up to the Ear of Bucephalus. O Masa, I entreat you, spread your wings and fly! There I will speak with you of your father and of the future, of yours and of mine. Will you grant my request?" She did not reply, but only regarded him with an inquiring, doubtful look. Was it a mere accident, or had he purposely placed himself so that the light of the now waning moon shone full in his face? Was it by chance that he was so placed that a shadow was thrown over the place where she stood, which enabled her to gaze at him from out the darkness with her large, luminous eyes? "I entreat you, Masa, go not down to your father's house, but ascend with me to the Ear of Bucephalus. There, where none but Allah and Nature can hear my words, I will speak to you of your father, and of the men of the village." She drew her veil more closely about her and bowed her head. "Lead the way, Mohammed Ali, and I will follow." And he, overwhelmed with happiness, knelt down and tenderly kissed the little foot that peeped out from beneath her white garments. Then he arose, folded his arms upon his breast, and bowed his head in reverence before his queen. "Your slave will lead the way," said he, softly; "be merciful, and follow him." He then turned and began the ascent of the path that leads up to the crest of the rock. Masa followed, praying to herself that her mother's spirit might accompany and guard her from all danger. Both were silent; Mohammed hastened on from rock to rock, higher and higher. Mohammed was right. Masa fluttered lightly from cliff to cliff like a white dove. At times he stood still and looked behind him. It perhaps occurred to him that he was walking too rapidly, and should give her time to rest. Or he feared, perhaps, the heavenly form might suddenly vanish like the vision of a dream. "See," said he, pointing to the moon now waxing pale in the heavens. "See, the night is drawing to a close, and day is about to break. I wish to see the sun rise with you, O Masa!" "I, too, desire it," was whispered in her heart, but her lips did not utter the words. "Lead the way, I follow you." The whispering of the lips was to him as the command of a sovereign; he quickly turned and continued the ascent. They had now reached the crest. And there, high above all earthly care and sorrow, the two, the youth and maiden stood, alone upon the lofty plateau. They stood upon the spot of which Mohammed had said that it was not yet desecrated by the foot of man. Here it was lonely and solemn; here Allah and holy Nature could alone hear his words. And now, overcome by the wondrous picture that lay spread out before them, and perhaps unconsciously, Mohammed took the girl's hand; and, without being conscious of it, she allowed him to take it in his own and pass it to his lips. The moon had vanished beneath the horizon, and there, where heaven and earth seemed united in sweet harmony, a purple hue, like a messenger from God, gradually overspread the sky. Who could tell where the earth ended and the heavens began; where the waves ceased to murmur and were commingled with the skies in Godlike majesty and love? Little purple clouds chased each other across the heavens like flying cupids, and here and there a star still faintly sparkling as if to tell of the Divine mysteries of creation. And now the waters of the sea suddenly begin to swell, and the waves roll higher; they rear their white crests aloft, and a whispering pervades the air, as though the spirits of heaven and earth were pronouncing the morning prayer of the new day. Upon the crest of the rock stand these two human beings, regarding the fading stars and the rising sun, hand-in-hand--they, too, a part of the holy universe created by Allah in the fulness of his grace. And their souls and hearts are as innocent as were those of the first human pair in paradise, before the alluring voice of the serpent had yet been heard. The light of day still shines, as through a veil, but a rosy hue gradually overspreads the heavens, and, at last, the sun rises, in all its splendor from out the sea, as on the first morning of creation, and on each succeeding morning since, comes this holy, ever-renewed mystery of the sunrise, that tells of the surpassing glory of God. A wondrous murmuring rises up from the sea, and the birds are all awake, exulting in the brightness of the morning. The palm, the olive, and the myrtle groves, rustle in the breeze. The lark soars heavenward, singing its morning greeting. Even the eagle has spread his pinions, and is mounting aloft from his nest in the neighboring rocks, to do homage to the sun. It is as though all Nature were crying, exultingly, "The new day has awakened!" "The sun has risen, Masa," cried Mohammed--"the night is past. As often as I have wandered among these rocks, never before has morning seemed so fair--never before have the sun's rays so filled my heart with warmth. Heretofore, the sunrise was but the signal for me to go in pursuit of game, or to prepare to cross over to Imbro, to look after the fishermen's nets, set out the day before. But to-day Allah proclaims to me why it is that the sunlight is so glorious, that the eagle soars so proudly aloft, that the waves surge so grandly. O Masa, I will tell you why it is thus: it is because they are all imbued with the spirit of creation, and this spirit is love-- eternal, illimitable love." "Speak not thus," said the maiden, tremblingly. "Speak not thus to me. It does not beseem a maiden to listen to a man's words of love without the approval of her father." "But will you not accord me this privilege, Masa?" asked he, gently. "May I not go to your father and entreat him to give me the pure maiden, that she may accompany me through day and night?" "No, do not speak thus," she repeated, tremblingly. "You told me you would speak of my father--speak of him, Mohammed Ali." "Yes; of your father," murmured he. "I had so much, so very much to say to you, and now it seems to me that all is already said. What remains is as nothing, and is forgotten." "You are mocking me," said she, gently. "You only wished to see if my father's daughter would be foolish enough to follow you where she should never go except at her father's side, or accompanied by women. You have punished me, Mohammed, for my folly and boldness in following you and confiding in you. If you have nothing to say to me, then let me quickly go and return to my father's house." "No, Masa, do not go. I did not intend to mock you; I really had so much to say to you! Yet I know not how it is with me; it seems to me that if I have been transformed, created anew; that yesterday and its events are forgotten. I am as a new, a different being." He could not hear the voice that whispered in her heart also, that the dawn of a new day had cast its spell over them both. "Oh, speak to me of my father," she cried, in anxious tones. "Yes, I will; I will call reason to my aid. Your father is my prisoner, and I have sworn that I would bring the rebels back to submission, and honor requires that I should finish what I have undertaken. I now deplore it in my inmost soul, now that the magic of your eyes has transformed me, and made of the fierce combatant a man who longs to fall at your feet, and pour out his heart's agony and bliss. And yet I cannot undo what I have begun. I registered an oath in the presence of the men of Praousta, and told them: --If you do not on the morrow comply with what I have commanded, in the name of the tschorbadji, I shall behead the prisoners that Allah has delivered into my hands!'" "O my father!" cried Masa, loudly, in tones of anguish. "I cannot do otherwise," said Mohammed, heaving a deep sigh. "I have pledged my honor that it should be so. I cannot recall my oath. But I can die, and die I will; no other resource is left me. I must choose between your father's death and mine. I cannot live dishonored and perjured. The tschorbadji can then release the prisoners; and he will do so, for he is kindly disposed, and it was I alone who wished to proceed with severity. And Osman will join you in your entreaties to his father. Now all is clear; now I know what it was I wished to say to you here on Bucephalus. Ah, still so much, and there is but an hour left me! How often have I gazed, from this place, at the heavens above, and the sea beneath; how often seen the sun rise in its splendor! But now that I have gazed in your eyes, Masa, all else is forgotten and extinguished, and for me there exists only the present; no longer a past. Yet I wished to see you once more before my death, and, I entreat you, grant me one request. My mother, Sitta Khadra, once told me that when a man was about to die, Allah's holy spirit is shed upon him, and the best and purest of all the welis is sent down to the dying, that a heavenly atmosphere may surround him even here on earth. It seems to me that you are the weli sent by Allah to him who is about to die. Therefore, remove your veil, that I may behold the brightness of your eyes and the crimson of your lips, and refresh my soul in the light of your countenance. Yes, die I must, and die I will, when I shall have seen the brightness of your eyes!" "Look at me," said she, softly, "and hear what I have to say; I will not have you die! There must be some other means of saving my father. But you shall not die, for you--" She spoke no further, but gazed dreamily upward at the heavens. The sun had risen higher, and now gilded with its rays the crest of the rock. Its golden light illumined the maiden's unveiled countenance, and Mohammed regarded her in ecstasy. Beautiful was she, and faultless; the eternal morning of youth shone in the features that were still more gloriously illumined by the lustre of first love. She seemed to Mohammed the very embodiment of loveliness, chastity, and innocence. In his ecstasy he could find no utterance for that which filled his heart. His whole being, his whole soul, was reflected in his eyes. He lost all control over himself in the presence of this maiden this heavenly image. "Love is my prayer, and prayer is my love. Look at me ye starlike eyes, and read in my soul what is written there in characters of living flame. 'I love you. I love you!' It is thus my heart speaks to you, and thus will it speak with my last breath. What I now feel is love and death combined heavenly bliss commingling with boundless suffering; I would weep, and yet shout for joy." Suddenly, Mohammed bounded to his feet, clasped the maiden in his arms, and imprinted a kiss on her lips, a kiss that made her tremble in her inmost being. For a moment, she allowed her head to rest on his shoulder; she then gently released herself from his embrace, drew her veil down over her face, and turned to go. "Oh, hear me, Masa, and do not be angry!" he cried, entreatingly. "Allah has seen us, and now hears my vow of fidelity. You say I shall live. Then say, too, that I may live for you! I swear to you that I have loved no woman but you, that no other woman shall ever dwell in my harem. Oh, speak, will you be mine, will you love me, and be true to me?" He paused, and awaited an answer, he waited long, but no answer came. It seemed to him that, with him, all Nature was awaiting an answer. The foliage of the trees ceased rustling, the songs of the birds were hushed, the eagle folded his pinions in the nest to which he had just returned, and gazed fixedly at the sun. The waves subdued their murmurings, and even the wind held its breath; all Nature was mute, and yet no answer came from the maiden's pure lips. "O Masa, will you be true to me, will you love me, will you one day come with me to my home?" urged the youth in tones of passionate entreaty. Her lips parted, and, in low, soft tones, like spirit-whisperings, she murmured, "Yes, I love you, and will be true to you." He hears her, and bows down, and kisses the hem of her veil. Sacred is the woman of a man's first love; sacred is the moment when he avows to her his love; sacred is the moment when he dares, for the first time, to approach and touch her. But suddenly an emotion of horror thrills his whole being. "O Masa, in my ecstasy, I forgot that I have come here to die, because I cannot live unless my honor is vindicated." "To die?" said the maiden, with a gentle smile. "Why die now, when we have only just begun to live?" "I must die that your father may live. I have already told you, Masa, that I have sworn by my honor, that the men of Praousta shall pay the double tax, as they are in duty bound to do. I have pledged my honor, that is, my life. Your father will not pay, and I have sworn by Allah and the prophets that the heads of the four prisoners shall fall if the double tax is not paid. You see now that I must die, that my honor may not suffer. When I am dead you can all settle the matter as you think best; the governor may then show mercy, and relieve them of the tax. But I cannot. And yet I cannot allow Masa's father to die, for Masa would weep for him, and her every tear would accuse me." "You shall not die, Mohammed," murmured the maiden. "No, you shall not die. O Mohammed, listen to my words. I conjure you, do not be cruel. You say I should weep if you killed my father; but do you not suppose that Masa's eyes would also shed tears if her father should rob her of your life?" "O Masa!" exclaimed Mohammed, in tones of ecstasy, as he extended his arms toward her. She stepped back, and gently motioned to him not to touch her. "Let us demean ourselves as we are commanded, as is becoming before Allah, the prophets, and the good spirits who hover about us; as is becoming in the presence of your mother, and of mine, who are looking down upon us; as a youth and maiden should who have not yet been united in the mosque. Do not touch me, but listen to what Masa has to say: You shall not die for my sake; you shall not fill my eyes with tears, and my soul with anguish. You shall live, Mohammed, that my whole existence may be yours, and yours mine! Let us think and dream of this; let us hope for this, and let us do all we can to make of this dream reality. and of this hope fulfilment. I shall go down to Praousta. I shall speak to them, and conjure them to pay this double tax in spite of my father's opposition. When they shall have done this, Mohammed, your honor will be saved, my father's life preserved, and his daughter's heart freed from anguish. The rest, Mohammed, we must leave to the good spirits, to the welis and the intercession of our mothers." "But if the men should still refuse," said Mohammed--"and I know they will," he added, gloomily. "They will not refuse. My lips will possess a charm to persuade them to do what we wish. They will not refuse. My love and anxiety for my father will give to my words such power that they must do, although with reluctance, what the daughter demands of them to save the father's life. I conjure you, Mohammed, wait patiently at least until the hour of second prayer. Prolong the time until then. Allow me to announce this to them; to bear a message to them from my father and from you; allow me to say: 'Mohammed will wait until the hour of second prayer; you can deliberate until then, and not until then, if it be necessary to pay the tax. Yet if, when the hour arrives, you do not appear, my father's life is lost, and you will be his murderers.' I will speak to them thus, and will entreat them with tears, and believe me, these men are good at heart, and full of tenderness and mercy. They, too, dearly love my father, the sheik, and they also love the ulemas, the wise men of the place, and they will surely yield to my entreaties if you will only wait, Mohammed." As she finished speaking, she turned the gaze of her glowing eyes full upon him. He looked into the depths of these eyes, and a sweet tremor coursed through his whole soul. "See how great is your power over me, Masa. Mohammed lays his honor, his pledged word, at your feet, and does what you request: I will wait until the hour of the second prayer. May Allah give strength to your words, and bless the charm of your crimson lips with success! I will wait. But one thing, Masa, tell me now, before you go." "What is it? " asked she. But she seemed to know already, for she blushingly averted her eyes. " Tell me that you love me, then I will wait. Tell me, Masa, do you love me?" "How can I tell you what I do not understand?" murmured she. "I do not know what love is." "You do not know what love is?" said he, gazing at her fixedly and almost threateningly. "Then tell me this, Masa, do you know that I love you?" When he uttered these words his face was so near hers that she felt his breath on her cheeks--so near, that his eyes looked into the depths of her own and saw themselves reflected there. "Do you know that I love you?" A slight tremor possessed itself of all her being, and she bowed her head in confusion. "Yes, Mohammed, I know that you love me." He suddenly raised the white veil from her countenance, and softly and gently kissed her lips, as softly and gently as the bee touches with its wings the crimson rose in search of its sweetness. He then quickly let fall her veil again. "Swear, Masa, that no other man's hand shall ever raise this veil!" "O Mohammed, how can I?' said she, in soft, pleading tones. "Am I not my father's slave, is not his daughter's life in his hands, must I not do what he commands? But this I can swear: that I will love you, Mohammed, that I will pray to Allah to bless our love. And now let me tell you, I not only know that you love me, but I also know that Masa's heart is yours, for it beats so loudly, so stormily, and I feel so happy. This I can swear, too, Mohammed, that my heart will remain true to you, and that I will rather die, than of my own free will allow another man to raise my veil." "And this I can swear, Masa, that you shall not die," said, he, and his voice sounded almost harsh and threatening. "No, you shall not die, Masa! You shall live, and live for me, the husband of your future. And now, come, I will conduct you to the rocky stairway. This you will permit me to do." She gently shook her head, raised her hand, and pointed to the landscape that lay spread out below in the bright sunshine. "No, Mohammed! You called me a white dove. Then let the white dove fly away on its mission. You would not be the huntsman that takes its life? See, beneath us lies Cavalla, where people are now beginning to move about. The eyes of gossips might see me, and the sharp tongues of calumny defame my father's daughter. That may not be, for the sake of my good name, and for your sake too, Mohammed. Let me go down alone, and you remain until you see me descending the stairway. Do not go down until then. Do not give evil tongues occasion to suspect and speak ill of me. Let the white dove that is to wing her flight, when it pleases Allah, to the nest you have prepared for her, be pure and with. out reproach. Do not speak one more word, and do not look at me only see how weak I am: if you look at me again I shall stand still and wait till you command me to go. Turn away from me and let me go. Let us both pray to Allah that our wishes may be granted." He turns away as she requested, and gazes in the opposite direction, at the blue sky and the foaming sea. He sees her not, but the pain he feels tells him Masa is leaving; he knows, without hearing her footsteps, that she is walking from him. He remains above as she had requested. After a while he turns around and looks after her. He sees the white dove fluttering downward from rock to rock, and at last disappear on the stairway that leads to Praousta. "May Allah bless her mission, that I may live, live for Masa, for her I love so passionately! All that I do shall henceforth be for her, and Mohammed's life will be bliss and sunshine." CHAPTER IV. MASA'S JEWELRY THE village of Praousta had now assumed a busy look. The men had assembled around the mosque, and were conversing in eager, anxious tones. When they saw the veiled girl approaching they bowed their heads respectfully, as is becoming in the presence of the unhappy. They knew the beautiful Masa, in spite of her veil. They knew she had gone up to her father to implore him to take pity on himself and on her. They now stepped up to her and asked if her father still lived, and if there was any hope of preserving his life. "His life is in your hands," replied Masa. "I come to conjure you to save the life of my father, and of the noble old men, the ulemas." "How can we, daughter of Sheik Alepp?" cried the men. "How can we save their lives?" "You ask me? Then I will tell you: You must bow your heads beneath the yoke. You must obey the commands of the tschorbadji." "Never! never!" cried the men. "Has not the sheik himself forbidden us to do so? Did not the ulemas, as late as yesterday evening at sunset, command us in Allah's name to be firm?" "They did command it," cried the girl, passionately, "and they did so because they wished to do their duty and obey the law. But it devolves upon you, ye men, to obey the higher law that dwells in us. Will you, ye men of Praousta, allow your best and noblest men to be murdered for the sake of a paltry sum of money. Do you wish that your children and grandchildren should one day point at you and say: --Look at them, they are murderers! They slaughtered them that they might keep their money, that they might keep that which they held dearest!" "No, Masa, it is not on account of the money!" cried the men. "It is a question of our honor, of law, and of justice. And therefore the sheik has commanded us not to pay. A double tax was imposed on us; that was unjust. The sheik and the ulemas say that, if we pay this double tax, they will the next time demand a treble, and the third time a quadruple tax. In this way they would consume our substance, and our fate would be poverty and the beggar's staff. Thus spoke the sheik and the ulemas as late as yesterday evening, and therefore must we remain firm, and, therefore, oh, forgive us, we should not dare to pay even if we could." "But we cannot even do it," cried one of the men. "No, Masa, you may believe us, it is not in our power. The tobacco-crop has turned out badly, and the storms have destroyed our nets, and let the fish escape. Really, we could not pay even if we would. It was with the greatest difficulty that we got the simple tax together, and now the tschorbadji sends us word, by his collectors, that we must pay as much more. By Allah, it is impossible, we cannot do it." "No, it is impossible; we cannot do it," cried the rest, in a chorus of lamentation. "Then you are ready to let my father die--to become the murderers of our ulemas," cried Masa, falling on her knees, and stretching out her arms imploringly. "Oh, be merciful to yourselves, for I tell you the evil spirits will obtain power over you, if you do not abandon your cruel intention. I tell you, misery will be your portion, if you allow your noblest men to be murdered for the sake of vile money." "And we tell you, Masa, that we cannot pay," cried the men, in defiant, despairing tones. "We repeat, and call Allah to witness, we have not the money they demand of us." "You have not this money? But if you had it, would you then pay? Would you bend your heads to save the heads of our noblest men? Would you go to the tschorbadji and say--Here is the double tax. You do us injustice, yet we humble ourselves in order to save the lives of our sheik and the ulemas!' Say, would you do this?" The people made no reply, but cast sorrowful glances at each other, and whispered among themselves "The sheik would not forgive us; he gave strict orders that we should not pay." "But his life, and the lives of the ulemas are at stake," murmured one of them. "Yes, his life is at stake!" cried Masa, who had heard this. "I entreat you to grant my request. Let each of you go after the tax he has laid by, and then come with me, all of you, to the tschorbadji. I will attend to the rest." "Masa, what are you about to do? " asked the men, regarding her in astonishment. "It does not become a woman to meddle with such affairs." "It becomes a daughter to save her father's life. This is my only purpose, and may Allah assist me in accomplishing it!" cried she, with enthusiasm. "I pray you, go after the money, and wait at the rocky stairway. I am only going to my house, and shall return directly." She flew across the square to her father's house. Two female servants, who had been standing in the hall, anxiously awaiting the return of their mistress, cried out with joy, and hastened forward to kiss her bands. She rushed past them up the stairway, and into her room, looking the door behind her, that none might follow. She then took hastily from a trunk, inherited from her mother, a casket, adorned with mother- of-pearl and precious, stones. She opened it and looked at its contents. "Yes, there are the ear-rings; and there are the tiara and the necklace." Her mother had given her, on her death-bed, these, the bridal ornaments she had brought with her from her father's house, and the sheik had often remarked that these jewels were worth at least a hundred sequins. Until now, their value had been a matter of indifference to her. What cared she how much money could be had for her pearls and necklace? She loved this jewelry because it came from her mother, but now she thinks differently. "The jewelry is worth at least a hundred sequins, and the tax certainly does not amount to more. And, if it were more, I should entreat the governor until he accepted the jewelry as the second tax. Thus it shall be. O dear mother, look down upon your daughter, and do not be angry with her for parting with the costly souvenir given her by you on your death-bed! Do not be angry, and see in it only love for my father!" She bowed her head, and kissed the pearls which had once adorned her mother; kissed the necklace and the tiara that had once shone on her dear head. "O mother, I had thought, that on my wedding-day, I too should wear these costly ornaments. But I know that it will be a matter of indifference to him, the only one for whom I wish this day to come. He would not look at the glittering jewels, but only at me. I therefore willingly part with them; I do not care, for he whom I love will not be grieved if I come to him unadorned." A blissful smile overspread her lovely countenance. She closed and locked the casket, and hid it under her veil. She hastily walked down the stairway, out of the house, and toward the mosque, where the men had begun to assemble, each one bringing with him his proportion of the tax. "Tell me, ye men," asked Masa, quickly, "what is the amount of the tax you are called on to pay?" "The simple tax, Masa, amounts to one hundred sequins. Consider how heavy a burden this alone is. There are hardly fifty men of us living here in Praousta, and really it seems to us quite sufficient that each of us has two sequins to pay at the end of each summer. But to pay the double tax is simply impossible. Your father well knew this, Masa, and he therefore sternly commanded us not to pay, as the demand was contrary to law and justice." "A hundred sequins," cried she, with sparkling eyes. "Then all is well. Come, ye men of Praousta let us ascend the stairway. The hour of the second prayer has not yet come, and until then, with the tschrobadji's consent, Mohammed Ali has granted us a respite. Wait on the crest of the rock above until I call you. I shall now go to the tschorbadji; pray ye, in the mean while, to Allah, that my words may prove effectual." She ascended the stairway with flying footsteps. With dejected looks, the men slowly followed. "We are wrong in allowing her to persuade us to submit to the tschorbadji. We will, however, pay the just tax, and no more. We would not pay more, even if we could. Here let us stay and await the call of our sheik's daughter." "And let us pray, as she requested," murmured others. On bended knees, and with solemn countenances, the men, but now so noisy and fierce, awaited Masa's return in silence. The white dove flew up the pathway, through the courtyard, and into the palace, regardless of a number of her father's old friends who were lying on the ground before the gate. She dare not stop to speak to them, for the sheik could seek to learn on what errand his daughter goes alone to the palace. If she should tell him, he would command her to return to her father's harem, there to await in patience the fate Allah should have in store for his children. No, she cannot approach him, cannot brave his questioning; she would then be compelled to disobey him, for her father's life must and shall be preserved. The tschorbadji stood in the lower hall. His heart was troubled, and his countenance sorrowful. He should not have permitted Mohammed Ali to go so far. How terrible it would be if this execution should really take place here in his courtyard, if the heads of the best men of Praousta should really fall to the ground! No, he should not have permitted the stern, pitiless young man to pledge his honor for the fulfullment of what he had undertaken. He had already asked his son Osman to seek his friend and entreat him to desist from his stern purpose. Osman was now pleading with his friend in soft, persuasive tones. "Will he succeed?" This is now the question that agitates the tschorbadji. He had sworn by all that was holy that Mohammed should have his will; and a Moslem cannot break his oath; honor forbids it. The tachorbadji knows this very well, and therefore is he sorrowful and dejected. Should the young man persist, he must therefore unwillingly allow him to carry out his purpose. He sits there on the divan, tortured with doubt and apprehension. Will Mohammed relent? Will Osman succeed in softening his heart? At this moment the door opens, and a veiled woman enters the room. She advances with light and noiseless footstep, and kneels down before the tschorbadji. "O master, be merciful to your servant! Sheik Alepp's daughter kneels before you ! Incline your heart to mercy, and give back to me my father!" "Gladly would I do so, were it in my power," sighed he. I swear it by Allah! But I have pledged my word to the young man to whom I gave authority to act in the name of the law, that he should have unlimited power to do as he should deem proper in the matter. I can therefore do nothing, though I would gladly liberate your father and abandon the collection of the tax." "O master, I do not ask you to give up the tax! You shall have all you have commanded us to pay." "You are prepared to pay it?" exclaimed the tschorbadji, joyously. "Then our trouble is at an end. But pray why are you, the daughter of the noble, worthy sheik, here?" "I have come, O master, because I have an act of mercy to implore at your hands. The men of Praousta are really not able to pay two hundred sequins, but what they lack in money I have in money's worth." "You speak in enigmas, maiden," said the tschorbadji. "You have the money, and yet you have it not. What does this mean?" "I have not the money in coined sequins," said she, looking toward the door as though she feared Mohammed might enter and be angry when she presented her love-offering. "Look at this, tschorbadji; these were my mother's jewels, but they are now mine, and no one else has a right to them. Gladly will I part with them for the sake of the men of our village. I have often been told that these jewels are worth more than a hundred sequins. I pray you, take them of me for that sum." Still kneeling, she handed the tschorbadji the casket containing the jewelry. He took it and regarded it thoughtfully. "Did it devolve upon me alone to decide this question, gladly would I take the jewelry, good maiden. But remember, I have sworn to Mohammed Ali that the prisoners should only then be released when the double tax shall have been paid in glittering gold-pieces. And I must keep my word. Gladly would I give you their value, but I must confess to the daughter of my sheik that I have not in my possession so large a sum. But remain here; a thought occurs to me," said he. "The ambassador who comes from Stamboul for the tax, and who arrived here yesterday, brought with him for Couspouf Pacha a large purse filled with sequins. If I show him this jewelry and ask him--yes, I will do so. Remain here, maiden, until I return. You might think I would keep your jewels and not return. Take your jewelry and remain here. I am going in quest of one who may be able to assist us. I say us, for I, too, shall be much pleased if the matter can be settled in this peaceful manner. Wait here, daughter of my sheik, while I go in search of one who can settle this matter fit the satisfaction of all!" CHAPTER V THE DELIVERANCE. "This, dear sir, is the woman of whom I spoke," said the tschorbadji, throwing open the door of the room, and stepping aside respectfully to allow his distinguished guest, Cousrouf Pacha, to pass in. "Salute this gentleman with reverence, daughter of my sheik," said he, turning to Masa. "You stand in the presence of a mighty man; he alone can help you." "O master, if it is in your power, I pray you to help me," cried the maiden, falling upon her knees before the pacha. "Be merciful! Deliver my father from his prison; deliver us all from fear and danger!" "What does all this mean?" asked Cousrouf, haughtily, turning to the tschorbadji, who had respectfully stepped aside. "You bade me come to decide an important question, and I find here only a young woman who is weeping. What does this mean?" "This young maiden is the daughter of Sheik Alepp, who is, as you know, imprisoned in the court-yard. She loves her father dearly, and has continually worked and pleaded for him since his imprisonment. She now comes to say that the men of Praousta are really not able to pay the double tax. You know that, although I would now gladly abandon the collection of the tax, I have sworn to Mohammed Ali that he alone should settle the matter. This tender-hearted maiden has now thought of a means of solving this difficulty. She brings these jewels, inherited from her mother, and asks me to give her their value, a sum sufficient to pay the second tax. I, however, am a poor man, and have not the hundred sequins to give her for her jewelry, in order that she may take them to the people of Praousta, for from them only will Mohammed accept payment of the tax. Therefore, pardon my importunity. You are rich and mighty; when your purse is empty you can easily refill it. You are noble and generous, and will perhaps be disposed to take the jewelry, and let the loving daughter have the money wherewith to obtain the deliverance of her father." "Where are the jewels?" asked the pacha, gazing with impassioned eyes upon the veiled figure of the maiden of whose countenance the eyes alone were visible. But they were so beautiful, and rested upon him with such an expression of tender entreaty, that he was moved to the depths of his soul. "Where are the jewels?" repeated he, slightly bending down over her. She raised her hand and gave him the casket. "Here they are, noble master. May Allah soften your heart, that I may not be deprived of my beloved father!" He listened attentively to this voice. It seemed to him he had never heard sweeter music than the tender, tremulous tones of this maiden pleading for her father. His gaze still fixed upon her, he opened the casket and glanced indifferently at its precious contents. For a moment a strange smile played about his lips, and he then turned with a mocking, contemptuous expression of countenance, and addressed the tschorbadji: "Tschorbadji, can you really so poorly distinguish between genuine gold and precious stones and a worthless imitation? These are playthings for children. These are not, pearls, and this is not gold. A well-planned swindle, truly. No Jew would give you two sequins for these things, not to speak of a hundred." "Swindle!" she cried, springing to her feet, and her voice as now clear and threatening. "You accuse me of planning a swindle! You are wrong, sir; and if there be any one here who cannot distinguish true gold and pearls from a base imitation, you are he! The gold and pearls are genuine, and were inherited by me from my mother, who was the daughter of a rich jeweler in Stamboul. She bequeathed them to me, and the casket has not been opened before since her death. And you accuse me of attempting to defraud you! You act ungenerously." "Dear sir, forgive her, forgive her bold words!" said the tschorbadji, addressing in earnest tones the pacha, whose eager gaze was still fixed on the maiden. It seemed as though her anger had power to excite his sympathy and admiration. "It is of no moment," said he, haughtily: "I pray you, tschorbadji, withdraw into the adjoining room. I wish to converse with her alone, and if in my power I will assist her, notwithstanding her imitation jewelry." "O master, you are assuredly wrong," urged the maiden. "The pearls are real, and the gold of the purest. I swear it by Allah! If you do not intend to purchase my jewelry, and enable me to save my father, tell me so at once, but you must not mock me." "I am not mocking you I--Kindly withdraw into the next room, tschorbadji, but leave the door open. You shall see all that passes between us, but I beg that you will close your ear. I wish to deal with the maiden alone, and it concerns no one to hear what we have to say." "I shall withdraw to the farther end of the adjoining room, where no word of your conversation can reach me," said the tachorbadji, respectfully. The pacha smiled condescendingly on the tschorbadji, who walked into the next room, and seated himself at its farthest end. "Now, daughter of Sheik Alepp, now we will consider this matter," said the pacha. "I am willing to assist you, but you must do your part." "Master, what shall I do? I am anxious to do all I can." "Do you love your father?" "Yes, master! I love him with all my soul; he is the master given me by Allah, and he is at the same time my friend. He is every thing to me, mother, brother, sister. We two are alone together, and love nothing in the world but each other!" "Then I am sorry for you, poor child!" said the pacha. "Your father is lost if the tax is not paid. You say yourself that the men of Praousta cannot pay the double tax, and should they fail to do so the heads of the four prisoners must fall." "Be merciful! O master, be merciful," cried Masa. "You are rich and mighty. You can save him. Oh, save him!" "You are in error," said the pacha, "in this case I am powerless; even the tschorbadji can do nothing. He pledged this word to Mohammed Ali; he took the triple oath that he would allow him to act as he should think best in this matter. Mohammed Ali has sworn that the heads of the prisoners shall fall unless the people of Praousta pay the tax, and that he will behead them himself if no other executioner can be found." "Horrible! and thus was his oath," cried Masa, shuddering. "I pray you, master, tell me, were these his words; did he swear he would himself execute my father?" "He did. And, believe me, the youth will keep his word. He is blood- thirsty and cruel, and it will gladden his heart to cool his wrath in your father's blood." "No! It is impossible!" cried Masa, in terror. "He cannot be so cruel, and he is not!" "Then you know him? " said the pacha, his eyes gleaming with hatred. "I saw him this morning, and implored him to be merciful. I went down on my knees before him, and besought him not to take my father's life." "And yet he will do it! I tell you this Mohammed is a fierce youth. Mercy is a word of which he knows nothing. You yourself have seen that he is relentless." "Yes," murmured she ; "he is relentless." "There is, therefore, nothing to be hoped for from him," said the pacha. "The tax must be paid, or the prisoners' heads fall." She sighed profoundly, and covered her face with her hands. She knows it is so; he told her so himself, in an agony of pain and sorrow. The men must pay the tax, or all is lost; her father, or he whom she loves, must die. She knows and feels this; and, therefore, has she come to implore mercy of the stranger, whose gaze fills her with anxiety and terror. She thinks of her father, and of the youth whom she loves, and her tongue is eloquent, for she is pleading for both. "I can help you," said the pacha, tranquilly and haughtily, "and I will do so." "You will?" cried she, joyously; and her eyes sparkled like the stars of heaven, and filled the pacha, whose gaze was still fixed on her; with delight. "You will help me, gracious master, sent by Allah to my assistance, you will deliver my father from prison?" "I will," replied the pacha. "That is, it depends on whether you will grant a request of mine, and do what I wish." "And what is it you desire, master?" asked the innocent, anxious maiden in tremulous tones. He gazed on her passionately, a smile lighting up his countenance. "Lift your veil, and let me look upon your countenance." She shuddered, and drew her veil so closely about her face, that it concealed her eyes also. "O master!" said she, in low tones of entreaty. "As you know, the custom of our land forbids a girl to appear unveiled before a man." "Unless he be the man who takes her into his harem," replied he, smiling. "Yes, master, only before him whom she follows into the harem, and then only when she has already followed him, may she unveil her face before him. Therefore, be merciful, O master! Honor the custom of our land, and do not demand of me what I could never confess to my father!" "Silly girl," answered he. "I do demand it, and, if it is denied me, your father's head falls. You admit he is the only man you love, and your only shield. When he is dead, you will be a beggar, and will not even be able to purchase a veil, for the poor are everywhere unveiled, and are, on that account, no worse than you who mask your faces with veils. Therefore, daughter of the sheik, lift your veil!" "Mercy! mercy!" she exclaimed, raising her hands entreatingly. "I cannot do what you desire. I dare not. I have sworn an oath!" "An oath?" said he, gazing at her piercingly. "To whom did you swear this oath?" She trembled, and did not reply. She felt that she must not confess the truth, for that would be to invoke destruction upon the head of Mohammed. "I swore it to myself," she whispered in low tones. "I swore to remain pure and honest, as beseemed my mother's daughter, and never to raise my veil in the presence of a strange man." "Then keep your oath!" said he, stepping close to her. "You shall not raise your veil, but I will; I will do it. I must see your face before I fulfil my promise, before I deliver your father from prison." He raised his arm. She sought to defend herself, and prayed for mercy. In vain! With a quick movement he lifted her veil, and fastened his gaze on her countenance. At that moment a cry resounded through the apartment, a cry of rage, and at the door of the adjoining room appeared Mohammed Ali, pale and infuriated. He was about to rush into the room, but with a bound the tachorbadji sprang to his side, grasped him with all the strength which his anxiety gave him, drew him back, closed the door, locked it, and drew the key out of the lock. "You ought not to enter, and, by Allah, you shall not!" "I must enter!" cried Mohammed, gnashing his teeth, and looking like an enraged lion, as he endeavored to wrest the key from the tschorbadji. But the latter grasped the key firmly, and anxiously called his son. "What has happened?" asked Osman in anxious tones, as he entered the room. Mohammed stood still, controlling his wrath with a gigantic effort. "You ask, Osman, what has happened. Within is Cousrouf Pacha with the sheik Alepp's daughter, and he treats with her for her honor and innocence, and she allows him to do so!" cried he, loudly and fiercely. "That is not true," said the governor. "You accuse him wrongly. There is no reason why all the world should not see and hear what is going on within. It is your fault alone that I found it necessary to lock the door. What was your object in coming?" "I came because the decisive hour has arrived, and I saw, in the adjoining room, Cousrouf Pacha raising the girl's veil." "You came and rushed past me like a madman. How do the girl's actions concern you. She came to seek deliverance for her father." "How her actions concern me, you ask, tschorbadji?" he cried, clinching his fists. "How Masa's actions concern me, you wish to know?" "Be still, Mohammed!" said Osman, whose keen vision had read the youth's soul, in low, entreating tones. "I pray you do not betray your secret." Mohammed shook convulsively, and covered his face with his hands. "It is true," he murmured. "I must and will be silent. She is lost to me. I will think of nothing but revenge, let all else be forgotten. --Tschorbadji, you swore that I alone should decide the fate of the prisoners, and you will keep your oath!" "I will keep my oath, as beseems an honest man, yet I hope, Mohammed, that you will not be relentless; if you had heard, as I have, the poor young girl's lamentations, it would have softened your heart, and it would not have become necessary to resort to the pacha." "As if he could assist her," he murmured to himself. "As if all assistance were not now out of the question." "Be composed, Mohammed," said Osman, entreatingly, as he threw his arms around his friend's neck. "Do not complain, do not accuse. Be firm, and prove that you have a strong and noble heart." He cried out in piercing tones, as the lion cries when it sees the hyena rending his young, as the eagle cries when the storm-wind sweeps away its nest with its young. Then in wild emotion he threw his arms around his friend's neck, and groaned heavily. Within, in the saloon, nothing could be heard of the loud talking in, the adjoining room. The pacha still held the veil high uplifted and gazed at Masa. "What is your name?" asked he, in low, soft tones. She cast down her eyes before his passionate glances, and a deep blush suffused itself over her features, making her still, more beautiful. "My name is Masa," replied the girl, in a low voice. "But I pray you, sir, let my veil fall over my face again. I am afraid!" "Let me gaze on you one short moment longer," whispered he, ardently. "You are beautiful, Masa, as are the stars of heaven, as are the blush-roses in my garden. No, you are still more beautiful, for they soon fade, but you are in the rosy dawn of your loveliness, and your youth is still radiant in the morning-dew of innocence. Oh, you are surpassingly beautiful, and it seems to me the prophet has graciously sent me one of his houris from Paradise." "I entreat you, sir, let go my veil," said she, in dismay, while two great tears trickled through her long black eyelashes and rolled down her cheeks. "These are pearls, more beautiful pearls, Masa, than are contained in yonder casket," whispered the pacha. "They will be genuine pearls if you let me kiss them from your cheeks." She stepped back proudly, tore the veil from his hand, and drew it down over her face again. "I have given no one the right to insult me, and you insult me!" "How musical this sounds! How sweet three words of indignant innocence!" At this moment Mohammed's voice, in loud, angry tones, was heard in the adjoining room. The pacha smiled, and motioned with his head in that direction. "You have seen Mohammed Ali, and you now hear him; he is a desperado, and will kill your father!" "Yes," she murmured to herself, "he will now be pitiless, he will now kill him." "But I," said the pacha, in gentle tones, "I have pity, and I will save your father." "You will save him?" she said, tremblingly. "I will," said he. "But hear me, Masa, charming crimson rose, hear me." "I am listening," said she, sobbing. He did not heed this, but stepped nearer, and bent down over her. "Masa, your jewelry I will not take, I want no such recompense; you shall even have money, all you may desire, if I can purchase you with it. "Me, sir?" she cried, in horror. "You wish to purchase me?" "Why are you so terrified? I have in my harem many women who are as beautiful and young as you are, and of much nobler birth, and they esteem themselves happy in belonging to me. But I tell you, Masa, I will hold you higher than them all. You shall rule over them all, and they shall all bow down before you, for Cousrouf Pacha will set them the example. By Allah! I swear it to you with the triple oath: not my slave, but my favorite, shall you be. Cousrouf Pacha will honor you as the first, as the queen of his harem." "It is impossible, sir," she cried, in terror. "My father's daughter cannot sell herself. She is a free woman, and must remain so." "Then remain so, and your father dies," said he, composedly. "Plume yourself with your freedom, but say, too, in your proud arrogance, that you are the murderess of your father. For, I say to you, Mohammed swore the oath, and he will keep it. Your father will die, and you will be his murderess." "Allah be merciful! I cannot allow my father to die. No!" she groaned aloud. "He dies if you do not accept what I offer. I repeat it, wealth and honors shall be yours. The daughter of the poor sheik of the wretched village shall become the favorite of the pacha. I shall not remain here long. The message will soon come that calls me to Stamboul; and you, Masa, shall go with me. At the court of the grand-vizier you shall be the first; I will honor you above all the rest, and lay at your feet all that I possess, for you are beautiful, and my heart is filled with love for you. I will make you happy at my side. And now decide. Without in the iron cage stands your father awaiting his deliverance, and here stands his daughter, and beside her Cousrouf Pacha, who offers her money, all she may desire, and lays every thing that he possesses at her feet. If you accept this offer, Masa, your father walks out of his prison a free man in spite of the blood-thirsty youth. Take the money and do not think I am purchasing you; it shall only be an earnest of your future. If you suppose you are to be, as you say, a slave, you are mistaken. You will only become the slave of your love for me." "No, sir! never can I love you," she cried, vehemently. "You cannot? It is thus the heart of the wild-dove speaks! Masa, you will, because you will be touched by my love. When you see me doing every thing to make you happy it will touch your heart, and you will love me." At this moment loud cries and lamentations were heard from without. "Those are the men of Praousta, who have come up and are lamenting. Do you not hear the call from the mosque? The second hour of prayer is at hand, the time has came. Decide, Masa!" She sank down on her knees, groaning; and prayed to Allah for mercy. "O Mass," said the pacha, raising her from her knees, "Cousrouf prays to you, be merciful to your father; yield, be mine and save him." Loud cries of grief again resounded without. Masa, shook with terror. "I cannot allow my father to die, I cannot! I yield, I am ready; give me the money, that I may bring it to these people." "I will give it to you, and you shall rescue your father. And now you are mine; not my slave, but my queen. Go up into my harem while I take the money out to these people." "No, not so," she cried, entreatingly. "Leave me my freedom for this one day only; let me remain this one day with my father, and do not let him have a suspicion of the price I have paid for his liberty." "Then let it be so," said he, regarding her fixedly. "You swear, by the memory of your mother, that you will voluntarily return to my harem early to-morrow morning." "I swear, by the memory of my mother, that I will return here early to-morrow morning." "You will come to the back-gate of my garden, where my servants will await you to conduct you to me. And now I am going after the money. Go into the adjoining room, to the tachorbadji." He opened the door, and beckoned to the governor. "Await me here a moment; I am going after the money with which to release the prisoners." He turned to her once more: "You understand, until early to-morrow morning. You have sworn by all you hold sacred--by Allah and by your mother." "Yes, I have so sworn," said she, in a low voice. "You will keep your word, and henceforth you will belong to me; for you are now mine: remember this. You are mine wherever you go, my property, my slave. This evening, when the night sinks down, and when your father has retired to rest, then you will come to my garden, where I shall await you with my eunuchs." "I shall come, master. Am I not your slave, and have you not paid for me?" He nodded to her, and then turned and left the room. Masa drew her veil closer about her face, that none might see that it was wet with her tears. CHAPTER VI THE FLIGHT. The court-yard without now presents a busy appearance. The fishermen of Praousta, becoming impatient and anxious, had hurried in a body up the stairway in the rock. When the signal for the morning prayer was sounded from the minarets they knew that nothing was to be hoped for from the efforts of the sheik's daughter, and they agreed among themselves that they would go up in a body and petition for mercy. They hastily agreed upon what they should say to the governor, and determined, of course, in their generosity of heart, that they would yield, and promise the governor to pay the double tax if he would only patiently wait a little while. This was their resolve. The sheik and the ulemas must be rescued, cost what it might. With this firm resolve they hastened up the stairway, entered the outer court- yard of the palace, and loudly demanded to be conducted to the governor. But their clamors were in vain. At the gate of the palace stood the eight soldiers of the body-guard, with drawn swords, prepared to defend the entrance. Enraged, the fishermen pressed forward with uplifted knives, threatening destruction to all who should attempt to bar their passage. "Where is the governor? We must speak with him; we must have mercy." "No, no mercy," cried a loud, sonorous voice; and, as they turned in the direction from which the voice came, they saw a fearful object standing in the middle of the court-yard--the block covered with black cloth. Near by, proudly erect, his lips firmly compressed, as if to repress words of imprecation or wrath that struggled for utterance, stood Mohammed Ali, like an angry spirit, ready to judge and to punish. Thus he stood there, and, behind, a slave holding in his hands the glittering axe. "Behold this, ye men of Praousta, and bow down in the dust; pay what the tschorbadji has demanded of you, or the heads of my prisoners shall fall as I have sworn." Horror, rage, and anger, were combined in the single cry that resounded from the breasts of all. "Mercy, mercy! you cruel boy! Do you intend to prevent the men of Praousta from returning tranquilly to their homes? do you wish to make slaves of them?" "I have authority to act as I am acting, and I will grant no mercy to the men of Praousta. Men must obey the laws, and humbly submit to them; and this you have not done, ye rebels! Why have you followed the sheik and the ulemas? You see they must bow down in the dust, after all; and, unless you pay the tax demanded by the tschorbadji, they shall die." "Listen, ye men of Praousta, listen!" cried a loud voice from one of the windows of the palace. There stood Cousrouf Pacha, beckoning to the fishermen with his uplifted hand. "Come into the palace; I wish to speak with you.--Make free the passage, ye soldiers! In the name of the tschorbadji, command you to allow these men to enter!" With a loud shout the men rushed toward the door, and the body-guard stepped aside, and left the passage free. Mohammed's glittering eyes followed them, and he suddenly turned pale, for Masa's lovely form now appeared on the threshold of the palace. A cry resounded from his lips. He stood helpless and motionless with anger and humiliation. It was now clear to him. She, who had sworn to love, who had sworn by her father's spirit that no man but he should ever raise her veil, had proved unfaithful. She had broken her sacred oath! She, whom he now loved with his whole heart and soul, had blasted his hopes. The thought almost stopped the beating of his heart. "Masa shall repent! Mohammed will wreak vengeance upon humanity for her broken faith." He trembled, and pressed his lips firmly together, when her white figure appeared in the doorway. But Masa saw him not, nor thought of him; her whole attention was occupied with her father. With a joyous cry, and widely-extended arms, she flew to the enclosure. "O father, O my father," cried she, in loud, exultant tones, "you are free!" "Free?" exclaimed the sheik. "It is impossible! It cannot be!" Mohammed sprang forward, and thrust Masa aside with such force that she sank upon the ground. A cry of anguish escaped her lips. She veiled herself, and gazed at him with anxious, imploring glance. He could not endure it; he turned his eyes away from her; he would not see her; he would be as strong in his hatred as he was in his love! "There is no mercy for the traitoress!" murmured he. "I will punish thee for thy unfaithfulness. I will revenge myself upon thee!" The men of Praousta now issue from the house, and shout joyfully before the cage in which the aged men are imprisoned. "You are saved--you are free. A noble man was found who sent us assistance. Long live Cousrouf Pacha, your deliverer!" The pacha threw open the window. He stood there, his form proudly erect. Upon his turban glittered the golden half-moon; above it waved the eagle's wing; the sun fell upon his sword and richly- chased poniard, playing gayly with the precious stones with which his garments were adorned. His eyes sparkled, and a wondrous smile hovered about his lips. And again they shouted: "Long live Cousrouf Pacha, our deliverer in time of need, our savior!" He bowed his haughty head, and his eyes rested passionately upon the young maiden, kneeling upon the ground in her agony. From her his glance passed over to Mohammed Ali. He saw the pain and anguish imprinted upon the livid countenance of the youth, and smiled triumphantly. He withdrew from the window, and hastened down to the court-yard, followed by the tschorbadji. He approached Masa, and, bending over her, said, softly: "Rise, daughter of thy father. Your sorrow and trouble have passed away. Be gay and happy once more. That which wicked men sought to do unto you has been frustrated. Your father is free.--Tschorbadji," said he, "command your servant Mohammed-- command him to unlock the gate of this cage, and to release the prisoners he has guarded so closely." "No!" shouted Mohammed, in a voice of thunder. With my consent alone can it be opened!--Guard the gates, ye officers; I go in quest of the key; and not one shall be released until, kneeling at my feet, with their heads in the dust, the rebels pay to me the double tax. What I have sworn--what I have sworn by my honor, that must be done." "We will not consent! We will never yield!" cried the men, rushing about in confusion. "Then the prisoners' heads shall fall!" cried he, exultingly waving his sword in the air. "The hour until which I granted a respite has come; the gold has not been paid; the law cannot be broken with impunity. You pay, or the hour of vengeance is at hand!" "We will not kneel; we will not humiliate ourselves before you, you boy!" With his sword still threateningly raised, Mohammed gazed around him. The tschorbadji and his son now approached the men, and pleaded with them urgently. They explained to them that Mohammed was in the right; that he could not act differently. As he had sworn by his honor to force them to pay the double tax, he must therefore keep to his word. "Do as he tells you," said the tschorbadji, in an entreating tone; "pay the tax he demands. Do it, ye men! I will reward you well, if you do as I say. He who goes to Mohammed to pay the money, he can ask at my hands a favor." The men's anger became subdued by the soft, kind words of their master. With bowed heads and gloomy aspect, they approached Mohammed Ali, who still stood with threatening sword before the cage. "We kneel before you in the dust; we have returned to our duty," said one of the men. "Here are the two sequins that I have to pay." "Here are mine," "And mine," cried they all, with one accord. They knelt and offered Mohammed the gold. He did not take it; but, gazing steadfastly and bitterly at the pacha, he thrust them aside with a movement of impatience. "Lay your gold upon the block. What, through your obstinacy, has occurred, cannot be obliterated by your gold. Lay your gold upon the block, for to it you offer your gold." Laughing wildly, he turned and bowed before the veiled maiden. "But you pay for it with your honor, with your shame." She fell forward, and a shriek of agony burst from her lips. But she still gazed with tender eyes upon the youth who looked down upon her so fiercely. "Traitoress! You have forgotten your oath!" "No, Mohammed," whispered she. "Hear me!" "Away from me! do you still wish to deceive me?" Again he thrust her from him. Masa would have fallen, had not Osman hurried forward and sustained her. "Forgive him," whispered he, softly. "He is wild with anger and pain." "O Osman, is all known to you?" asked she, in trembling tones. Osman bowed his head. Tears stood in his eyes. "Be quiet--we are watched. In the evening I will send you word." "Open now the gates, and let the prisoners out," said the tschorbadji to Mohammed. "The law has been vindicated." "It shall be as you command," said Mohammed, with the calmness sometimes born of despair. He drew forth the key, and placed it in the lock. Masa sprang forward. The gate opened, and now she stood beside her father. She threw her arms about him, and kissed his lips. Then she bowed her head upon his breast, and wept bitterly. The old man held her close to his heart, and then, lifting her up, bore her, trembling with emotion, from out the cage, in which he had endured such torture for four-and-twenty hours. The ulemas followed him. Joyfully the men greeted the released prisoners, and prayed that they might escort them home in triumph. "I see no cause for triumph," said the sheik, calmly. "You have done what I cannot approve. It were better, I think, to have laid my gray head upon the block, rather than you should place upon it your hard- earned gold, becoming hereby the slaves of him who gave it to you, and has thus lowered you by his gift.'' "No, sheik," said Cousrouf Pacha, advancing proudly. "He who gave this gold gave it not with such intent. He gave it not to humiliate these men. I gave it for your sake, and for your daughter's sake," continued he, in loud tones, and for an instant his eyes gleamed passionately on Masa. He well knew his words would enter Mohammed's heart like a knife. Turning slowly, be glanced at him, and smiled at seeing him turn pale. "I am now about to leave you," said the pacha. "The grand-sultan calls me from here. Fear not, therefore, O sheik, that my countenance will longer humiliate you. I give you freedom. Return to your friends; you are free!" "Long live Cousrouf Pacha!" was the exultant cry of the men of Praousta. No one heard, amid the many voices, the one crying "Cursed be Cousrouf Pacha! Cursed be my enemy unto death! I swear revenge upon him!" "Cease, Mohammed; be guarded, be silent! Dissemble your anger, your pain, O friend of my heart! Believe me, all will soon be changed: the sky that now seems so dark, will soon be clear with the light of the sun and of love!" "No, never, Osman, never," murmured Mohammed, gazing bitterly at Masa, who, leaning upon her father's arm, and followed by the ulemas and the jubilant fishermen, was now leaving the court-yard. "Nevermore, Osman, nevermore, will the sun shine for me! Night and impenetrable darkness envelop my fate! But I swear to revenge myself upon those who have done me this wrong!" "Silence, silence, Mohammed!" said Osman, entreatingly, to his friend. "See, my father approaches, and with him Cousrouf Pacha. How triumphant he seems! He knows he has pained you. Will you permit him to see and rejoice in your pain?" "No, no, you are right! He shall not rejoice in my pain! Bitter heartache shall I prepare for him someday!" Laughing bitterly to himself, he advanced toward the two approaching him. "Mohammed Ali," said the governor, solemnly, "I thank you for your good services. You have accomplished that which, by your honor, you swore to fulfil. And I affirm that I also have kept my word. I allowed you to do as you thought best, and did not restrain you when I thought your acts cruel; but I must nevertheless admit that you have acted with wisdom and with courage. Gladly will I reward you for that which you obtained through your daring. It is fit that such a man should have an office, and exercise the duties thereof from now on. Mohammed Ali, I have good news to impart to you! The scenes of yesterday have taught me that, to preserve peace and quiet, it is necessary to have soldiers at hand. I have already dispatched a courier to the neighboring town, and a garrison shall hereafter stay here or at Cavalla. You, Mohammed Ali, I appoint boulouk bashi, or captain of this company that is to enter Cavalla to-morrow." A deep color overspread, like the morning sunlight, Mohammed's countenance:--"Master, you well know how to reward generously him who has done naught but his duty." "And now, my Mohammed," whispered Osman, softly, "or rather boulouk bashi, let me be the first to congratulate you. How proud and happy I shall be when I see Mohammed Ali, in his glittering uniform, marching at the head of his company. Proud and happy shall I account myself when so handsome, so brave a soldier, considers me worthy of his protection!" "You make sport of me," murmured Mohammed, a soft smile illuminating his countenance. In the spirit he saw himself in his handsome uniform at the head of his company. Truth and justice are once more acknowledged. The hour of humiliation and pain has gone by. The time he had so long looked for had arrived. He listened calmly to the tschorbadji's announcement that on the morrow his uniform would be ready, as well as those of his soldiers, which were to be sent, at once to Cavalla. "There will be a number of uniforms, and the young boulouk bashi can make his choice from among them." "And the sword, my father, the sword, I will give to my friend Mohammed Ali!" cried Osman, joyously. "Do you remember the gold- handled sword given me by the grand-vizier on his last visit? I have kept it jealously, though, alas! I can never wear it myself. And now my friend shall wear it in my place, and, when I see him pass by with the glittering weapon at his side, it will seem as if I carried it myself in defence of my beloved country. Come with me, Mohammed," said he, taking his friend's arm. "You are in need of rest. You have been deeply moved, and now let us retire. It is quiet within my father's apartments; there we will betake ourselves and repose together." "We will all follow you," said the governor.--"I pray Cousrouf Pacha to accompany us. The day is bright and lovely, and I think we all stand in need of rest and refreshment. There we will take our coffee, and at the same time something more substantial together, and, enveloped by the smoke from our pipes, we will discuss the events of this day, which commenced so stormily, and now seems to end so pleasantly to our general joy." "Who knows, tschorbadji, that it brings joy to all?" said Cousrouf Pacha, sneeringly. "I, of course, have cause to rejoice and be thankful, this day. But it strikes me, Mohammed Ali is by nature little inclined to be thankful. Instead of joyfully receiving his honors, he seems to gaze wrathfully upon us all." "I think I have cause to do so," said Mohammed, impetuously turning to him. "And wherefore?" said Cousrouf Pacha. "Wherefore? Speak on." "Well," said Mohammed, "many, I think, receive honors which they have not deserved, and have done naught to earn, as if they were to be bought, and they knew how to purchase them. I say that honor, power, and consideration, often spring from hypocrisy and slavish submission; and that through cunning, deceit, and shame, many a free human soul becomes abject and lost. I hope I am understood by Cousrouf Pacha!" "I regret that I can neither understand nor explain these strange words. But you must feel, tachorbadji, that I have to deny myself the pleasure of remaining longer with you in the company of this wild young man, whose mind seems bewildered by the honors conferred on him. Enjoy yourselves in quiet repose, and be happy at your feast." "Do as it suits you," cried Mohammed. "I shall not share it. I am exhausted, and shall retire to rest and refresh myself. Farewell!" He bowed his head, and carried his hand in greeting both to lip and brow. He then turned, and hastened rapidly away. The pacha followed him with an evil glance. "The forward youth is forever in my path," said he, threateningly. "It was well for him he withdrew, for it might have come to bitter enmity between us. Should he dare again what he this day ventured upon, his life would no longer be secure. Being a guest in your house, and meeting him there, made me considerate to-day. But woe unto him should he cross my path, when no such considerations restrain me! Bitterly shall he repent of his words." CHAPTER VII THE MESSENGER. Joy and merriment prevailed throughout the day in the village of Praousta; a continuous firing of guns was kept up, which delighted the boys, and terrified the sick, and the timid little girls. Joyous songs were sung, and, on the grand square before the mosque, men and women assembled for a dance. The tambourine rang out merrily, and cymbals and flutes filled the air with sweet sounds. A sail on the water was arranged for the afternoon, and the boats were gayly decked with flags for the occasion. In the first large boat the sheik, the ulemas, and the leading men of the village, were reposing on carpets. Two boats containing the musicians followed; and then came, in four gayly-adorned ones, the women of the village, enveloped in their white veils, and greeting the men in the other boats with their bright eyes only. It was a beautiful spectacle. The sea itself seemed to rejoice over it; it murmured softly, and curled its waves caressingly upon the beach. The governor, accompanied by his distinguished guest, Cousrouf Pacha, had come down to Praousta. Both were saluted from the boats with shouts of applause; handkerchiefs and caps were waved, and the blessing of Allah and of the prophet invoked upon their heads. But curses also resounded from time to time from their midst. "These two gentlemen are kind-hearted. They saved us, and Mohammed Ali alone was the cause of all our trouble and anxiety. Woe to the traitor! He wished to make himself a name, to mount to honor and power upon our shoulders, though we should be ground down in the dust. Woe to him! woe to him ! The governor is kind, we have nothing to fear from him. Mohammed Ali alone is our foe--woe to him!" This was the cry from one to the other; all joined in it; they all raised their fists menacingly against Mohammed Ali. "May he hear our curses, and see our threatening hands! We will be avenged on him for what he has done to us. He shall be repaid for all the evil he has done to the sheik; of this he can rest assured. We have loved and been kind to him; we have treated him as if he were our child; he is indebted to us for all he is, and for all he can do. From us he learned to manage a boat, to use a gun--and thus has he rewarded us. Woe to him!" This cry resounded again and again from boat to boat: "Woe to him! Woe to Mohammed Ali, the son of Sitta Khadra!" But he heard nothing of all this; neither the curses, nor the laughter and shouts of joy. He had gone to his solitary resort on the rock above. There he was alone, without fear of being observed by the eyes of men. There no one could hear his wails of anguish. There he was alone with wind and waves. Alas, how short a time had elapsed since he had stood there in joy and exultation! His soul had revelled in all the delights of the world, in all the glories of Paradise. Only a few hours had passed, and yet it seemed to him that he was entirely transformed, that he had became another man since then. With what pious thoughts, with what ecstasy had he, that morning, greeted the rising sun! His heart had been filled with ineffable bliss; tears of delight had stood in his eyes. Now the evening is sinking down, the first evening after that blissful sunrise, and vanished is all he had gloried in; lost, all he believed he had won. A white dove had fluttered down from heaven, he had seen a fair swan full of innocence and loveliness at his side; and now, the white dove had transformed itself into a monster, and the fair swan had become an evil spirit. Yes, an evil spirit had assumed the form of a swan, and cast a wicked spell over his heart, and now--O Mohammed, learn to suffer! Rend yourself with your agony; press your hands convulsively to your breast till the blood trickles out from your finger-nails; cry out in your anguish, till the eagle, aroused in his nest, looks out with greedy eyes after the poor creature that has dared to disturb the king of the air! Let curses resound from the quivering lips that are as pale as those of the dead! Curse the swan for having become a ghin; the white swan for having transformed herself into a cat, and then awake from your despair. Behold her standing before you with the sweet expression on her delicate features, with the blushing cheeks as you raise the veil, with the crimson lips that grow more crimson still as yours touch them. Behold her, in all her loveliness, and kneel down on the place where she stood, and passionately kiss the earth her feet have touched. Bless her in your love, and curse her in the anger of your hatred! First love is passionate in its bliss, burning its agony, and agony and bliss, fury and delight, are all pouring through your soul, and giving you the baptism of pain, making of the youth a man. "Tear love from my soul, and enable me to tread it under foot!" he cries out fiercely, as he now rises from the place he had just touched with his lips. "Root out these memories from my breast, spirit of my mother! She to whom I here prayed, and swore fidelity, has proved untrue. Strike blind the eyes of my soul, that they may no longer see this horror! Make deaf my ears, that I may no longer hear the sweet voice that sounds like heavenly music! What was it she said, what were her words? "'I will be thine, and love no other but thee!' she said. 'By my mother's spirit, I swear to you that no other man shall lift this veil from my face; I will be thine, alone!' "It was music when she said it. It filled my heart with heavenly joyousness. And now it proves to have been evil spirits only, who had come up from the deep to deceive a poor heart! Oh, these memories, they will follow me like a black shadow throughout life. In wild merriment and conflict, I shall be able to hush them in the noisy day; but, in the stillness of the night, they will come back to charm--no, to tear my heart! O Masa, Masa, what have you done!" Overwhelmed with his agony, he sank to the ground, and kissed again and again the place where she had stood, and wept aloud. "Mohammed!" suddenly exclaimed a voice behind him. "Mohammed Ali! The man who weeps has no manly courage, and it would be vain to call on him for assistance!" Is another evil spirit beside him? What woman is this who suddenly appears at his side, closely shrouded in a black veil? Is it another ghin come up from the deep? "You are right," murmured he, "no one need longer hope for assistance from me; I will give vengeance and destruction to those who call on me for help!" He springs to his feet and stares fiercely at the woman. "Away from me! Allah is Allah, the only one in heaven, and Mohammed is his prophet. Away from me, evil spirit!" He exorcises this creature with the oath with which evil spirits are driven out. But it seems this spirit is not to be exorcised. The veiled woman remains quietly standing, regarding him sorrowfully. "Mohammed, there are many who suffer, and yet do not break out into loud lamentations. Many a woman wails in the silence of her chamber; the lamentation of many a young girl resounds, unheard and unheeded, through the harem. I know a girl, Mohammed Ali, who weeps and laments, because she well knows that one whom she looked upon and greeted in the holy stillness of the morning as though he were her lord, entering the harem for the first time--that this one wrongfully accuses her, calls her faithless; yes, perhaps at this very moment, appeals to Allah for vengeance for a crime which she has not committed; for a wrong that does not burden her soul!" "You know such a girl?" he cries, with loud, mocking laughter. "You are fortunate in knowing her. I do not know such a girl; I only know that they are all deceitful and traitorous." "Then you assuredly do not know this one! She is as pure as an angel, and her name is Masa." "Masa!" he exclaims, in loud and joyous tones. Then his countenance darkens, and, raising his clinched fists threateningly, he cries: "Masa! you deceive yourself. Of all deceitful women she is the worst. Do not say that I deceive myself with regard to her; I saw, with my own eyes, that which gives me death; that which will forever gnaw at my heart. Away from me, and announce to her who sent you that no woman shall ever deceive Mohammed again." He turns to descend from the rock, but the woman holds him fast, regarding him with an anxious, entreating look. "Do you wish to kill my darling, the beloved child of my mistress? Listen, Mohammed! On her death-bed the mother confided to me her only child. Grasping her cold hand, I swore by Allah that I would hold her as my own, that I would watch over and guard her from all evil. This morning I found my darling in an agony of grief. She did not go out with the joyous crowd, but remained at home in her own little room. I saw her wringing her hands, and heard her entreating Allah to take her life. I entered her room and said to her: 'O Masa, you know that your Djumeila is true to you. Confide in her. Tell me all that grieves you. What is it that gives you pain?' After I had thus appealed to her for a long time, she arose from her knees, fell on my neck, and whispered in my ear a wondrous tale of the starry sky, of sunrise, and heavenly delight, of the bliss and pain of love. And I swore by Allah and the prophet, by the spirit of her mother, that I would never speak to another a word of what she had told me! But, because I love the child of my mistress, the child that is to me as my own, so dearly, I promised that I would go to the man she loves and tell him everything in her name." "Then go seek him she loves! You will find him in the governor's palace; there he sits enthroned in the midst of his grand and brilliant harem. She longs to see the doors of this harem thrown open to her. Go to him and tell what you have to say. You will be welcome." "I knew to whom I was to go, and I have already reached my destination. The heart of a woman who loves can see the absent like that of a sorceress. Masa said to me: 'Go up the rock to the highest point; there we vowed eternal fidelity to each other. I know he will be there! He will seek to wipe out the traces of our morning communion with his curses, perhaps, too, with his tears.' Now I am at the place to which Masa sent me, and here, too, is he to whom she sent me. Mohammed Ali, do not turn from me, do not shake your head. Rather let us sit down, and listen to what Djumeila has to say." He did not reply. He only made a motion as if to shake off the hand she had laid on his arm, in order to draw him down to her side. But now against his will he permits her to draw him down to a seat on the stone beside her. "Listen, Mohammed! Masa is at home, locked in her room. She weeps and laments, and has sworn to me by her mother's spirit that she would die to-night. The waves are to close over her if Mohammed does not rescue her from disgrace and misery. Listen, Mohammed, and take what I say to heart. Will you do so, Mohammed!" "Well, then, I will!" said he, after a short pause. "May Allah judge you if you are about to deceive me again!" "Then incline your ear closer to me, that the ghins may not hear what I say and carry it further. What Masa confided to me is intended for you only." He inclines his head close to hers. For a long time she whispers and speaks to him in impressive tones; and he listens at first against his will, but gradually a new life courses through his being, a delicate color suffuses itself over his pale cheeks, and his brow quivers with emotions of mingled joy and pain. The woman continues to speak in low, earnest tones. When she has finished, Mohammed bounds to his feet. Suddenly he is completely changed. His eyes sparkle, his lips smile and part to give utterance to a cry, to a loud, piercing, joyous cry, such as the eagle utters when he returns after a long journey and sees his young looking up and opening their beaks to greet him. He felt that he must cry out to relieve his breast. He extends his arms into the air, as though he saw before him the white dove, and wished to clasp it to his heart; as though he saw on the murmuring sea at his feet the swan approaching, singing to him the song of holy virgin purity and of chaste maidenly love. "O how beautiful is the world!" he exclaims, exultingly. "How heavenly to live in it! But then this is not earthly delight, but the bliss of Paradise. I shall enter Paradise to-day, and be one of the blessed; I shall revel in heavenly joys already here on earth as man never did before. Come, Djumeila, and listen to my words. Come to this spot. See, here she stood this morning; here she exchanged with me vows of eternal fidelity, and this holy place I have consecrated with my tears and my despair. I was a fool; oh, forgive, Masa, forgive me, and I will repay you with life-long devotion. So long as a drop of blood flows in my veins will I love you and belong to you alone. Come, seat yourself beside me, Djumeila, and listen attentively to each word I shall speak to you." CHAPTER VIII VANISHED. The inhabitants of Praousta had insisted on making the release of the sheik and the ulemas the occasion of general rejoicing, and the latter were compelled to yield to the general desire and take part in the festivities. But it is well that evening is now come, and that the night is spreading her rest-bringing mantle over the earth. It is well that the opportunity has at last come to breathe freely in the stillness of one's chamber, and to thank Allah, with earnest prayer, for having given them a happy issue out of the cares and dangers of the preceding day. The sheik has finished his prayer in the silence of his chamber. He now lightly ascends the stairway to the harem where his beloved child, his Masa, sojourns. Before the door of her chamber sits Djumeila, the faithful servant, and with upraised hand she motions to the sheik to step softly and make no noise, that Masa may not be disturbed. "You know, master, that she has been complaining the whole day. Anxiety and care for you, and the pain and exposure she has endured, have made my dove ill, and she has gone to her room to rest and restore her strength. She therefore requests you, through me, to allow her to remain undisturbed until tomorrow morning. She has not been able to sleep at all during the day, and has continually wept and complained; but at last, toward evening she partook of some food and fell asleep. Yesterday she was so courageous and strong, but today she has been weak and dejected. Before going to sleep she called me to her bedside and told me to bear her greeting to her father; and to say to him that she hoped to be entirely recovered by tomorrow morning, and would come down to breakfast to hand you, my master, your coffee and chibouque." "It is well," said the sheik, softly. "Let my child rest, let my Masa sleep; tread lightly, and be careful that you do not disturb her. I, too, feel that I need sleep. Let the whole house repose, and avoid making any noise before tomorrow morning. Then I will come to her room to see her." The old man took off his shoes and noiselessly descended the stairway to his bed-chamber. It was now still in the house. All Praousta was silent. The people were resting from the pleasures of today, and the anxiety and care of yesterday. In Cavalla, also, all was now quiet. The windows of the tschorbadji's palace were dark, and silence prevailed everywhere. The governor and his son Osman had retired to rest. In the apartments occupied by Cousrouf Pacha darkness also prevails, and in the harem the blinds have been let down behind the latticed windows. One room alone is dimly lighted. On the table stands a silver lamp, which sheds a faint light through the spacious room, upon the gold-embroidered caftan of the pacba, and upon his proud, gloomy countenance. He rises from his seat, and walks hastily through the room. He then suddenly stands still. The pacha waits the arrival of the girl he has purchased with the blood-money given for her father. All is quiet in the tschorbadji's palace, and also in the sheik's house. The windows are dark, the gate is locked. Now she will come: she has given her word; she has sworn by Allah; she has sworn by the spirit of her mother; she has sworn by all she holds sacred. She will come for the daughter of Alepp knows that one who breaks a treble oath is doomed to inevitable destruction, and walks a welcome prey to the evil spirits, to the ghins. Surely, she will not dare to do this! She will come--she must come. Something rustles in the garden. The pacha steps hastily to the window, throws it open, and looks out eagerly into the darkness. It is well that the moon is at this moment concealed by clouds; he might otherwise now see her coming up the walk from the end of the avenue. No, nothing approaches. It is not the beautiful virgin, with the eyes of the gazelle, with the light, airy step. How beautiful she is, how fair, how lovely! Is she not yet coming? Does he not hear approaching footsteps? No, neither of the eunuchs is stealthily approaching to announce to his mighty master that the virgin has entered the harem. He stands and waits, his face quivering with anger and impatience. He is angry with the girl for daring to come so late. But come she will, and come she must; for whoever breaks the treble oath is lost before Allah and the prophet. He remains at the window, looking out into the quiet garden and dark night for a long time. The wind extinguishes the lamp that stands on the table. Now all is profound darkness. It is dark in the garden, and in the room. It is dark, too, in Cousrouf Pacha's breast. "Woe to her, if she dares to break her oath! In that case, I will go, with my servants, in the broad light of day, to-morrow, to the sheik's house, and demand my property--my slave. Mine is she, for I purchased her with money which she accepted. Then, however, she shall not be my queen, but my slave--my servant. Come she shall, by Allah! I must possess her, for I love her with all the passion of my heart." He bends forward, and listens attentively again. He hardly dares to breathe, and his heart throbs loudly as he anxiously gazes out into the garden. He does not notice that the hours are rapidly passing; to him it seems an eternity of waiting. Without, at the garden-gate, the two watchful eunuchs are still standing. They, like their master, have been looking out into the darkness, and listening throughout the entire night. "No sign of her yet," said one of the eunuchs to the other. "Woe to the girl if she dares to deceive our mighty master! She thinks, perhaps, he will abandon his claim. There will be a nice piece of work to be done tomorrow. Cousrouf Pacha, our mighty master, is not in the habit of being trifled with. He will send us down after his property, and there will be no lack of bloody heads in Praousta, tomorrow; for we shall certainly have to regain possession of this slave. He says she accepted the purchase-money, and she therefore belongs to the master who bought her. Will she come, or shall we have to get possession of her by force tomorrow?" "I hope she will come of her own word," said the other. "These fishermen are so brave, and have such hard fists." "And I hope she will not," said the first, laughing. "We must take her by force. I should relish just such a row. If they have hard fists, we have sharp, glittering weapons. And then, as you know, the soldiers are coming to take up their quarters here tomorrow; the tschorbadji will send a part of them to help us when the company arrives." The pacha is still standing at the window, looking out into the night. He raises his hands threateningly, and his eyes glitter like those of the panther, lying in wait for his prey. "Woe to her if she breaks the triple oath! Cousrouf Pacha will know how to avenge himself. She must become mine--she is mine already. I have bought this slave, and, by Allah, what I have bought I will also possess!" At last, day dawns. The sun sends out into the heavens its purple heralds, and it begins to grow lighter in the garden. The pacha now sees a figure coming up the walk. It is one of the eunuchs. He goes noiselessly into the house, to his master. "Has she come?" asks he, with quivering lips. "No, master, she has not come. The path that leads up from the village is still empty. Shall we wait longer, master?" " No," he gruffly replies. "Lock the gate and retire to the harem. It must be a misunderstanding; she supposed I meant the following evening. Go!" The eunuch prostrates himself to the earth, and takes his departure, gliding stealthily out into the garden. When he feels assured that no one can see or hear him, be stands still, and laughs mockingly: "It is a great pleasure to see a grand gentleman now and then humiliated like the rest of us. He was terribly annoyed; I could tell it by his voice. Serves him right! I am delighted to see that grand gentlemen have to put up with disagreeable things sometimes, too--truly delighted." With a sorrowful expression of countenance he now walks on down to the garden-gate, where the other eunuch is waiting, and tells him his gracious master has made his reckoning without his host, and that his purchased slave's failure to come has grieved him deeply. They looked at each other, and the dawning light showed that they nodded triumphantly, with a malicious, mocking grin. They understood each other well, without telling in words what they were laughing about and rejoicing over. The morning had come in its full splendor, and the town and village had again awakened to life and activity. The sheik, too, had arisen; had already turned to the east, and finished his prayers, and repaired to his daughter's room. She had told him, through her servant, the evening before, that she would come to him early in the morning, to hand him his coffee and chibouque. But Masa, did not come, and the father's heart is filled with an inexplicable feeling of anxiety. He hastily ascends the stairway. Djumeila no longer watches before the door; she has gone, and is perhaps busied with her morning occupations. The sheik opens the door of his daughter's sitting-room. "Masa" he cries, "it is time to come down to breakfast." He supposes she is within, in her bedchamber, and has not heard him. "Masa," he cries again, "come out, my child, come to your father." All is still as before. He calls for the third time; no one replies. "Masa, where are you, my child?" The sheik anxiously walks through the sitting-room to the little chamber where his daughter's bed stands: no one there either. " Masa, my child, my darling, where are you?" He stands still, listening for an answer; he breathes heavily when as yet no answer comes, but consoles himself with the thought that she has already gone down, and is awaiting him below, while he is seeking her in her rooms above. Hastily, with the quick step of youth, the sheik descends the stairway again, but Masa was not there. The father's calls grow louder and more anxious. "Masa, where are you? My beloved child, come to your father." All remains still. No answer comes to the father's anxious calls. The sheik now hurries to the kitchen, where breakfast is being prepared; Djumeila is standing there at the hearth, perfectly composed, attending to her cooking. She salutes her master with a deferential air. "Where is Masa, my daughter? " cries the sheik. "I do not know, master," she quietly replies; "I have not yet seen her today. Early in the morning, before sunrise, I went out to the meadow to milk the goats, that my child, my darling Masa, might have fresh sweet milk for her breakfast; since then I have been occupied with getting breakfast ready, and now you ask me 'Where is Masa?'" "Spare your words and listen: Masa has vanished; Masa is not in her room." Djumeila cries out loudly: "Where is Masa? where is my white dove?" She rushes out and runs to her mistress's room; and, not finding her there, falls to weeping and wringing her hands in despair. "Where is my beloved child? she is not with her father, she is not in her room." She then hastens to the other maid-servant. "Where is Masa? has no one seen my master's daughter? has no one seen my beloved child?" The sheik stood in the hall and listened to Djumeila's cries and the answer of the other servant. He then walked rapidly all over the house again, called his daughter's name loudly once more, and stood still to listen for an answer. "But it is foolish to be so anxious. Masa is fond of going out to the sea to listen to the murmuring and whispering of the waves. My child is pious, and may have gone to the mosque to pray and to thank Allah. That is it--she has gone to the mosque." The sheik rushes out into the street. It is well that the mosque is not far from his dwelling. The doors are open; Masa is surely there, probably on her knees in one of the recesses, addressing herself to her prayers. No, she is not there; the recesses are empty, and she is not up in the choir with the women either. "She is nowhere in the mosque; but she may be down on the beach." The sheik no longer felt the weight of his years, he no longer felt exhausted by the fatigues of the preceding day. He is young again, and his blood is coursing through his veins. With head erect and firm footstep he walks down to the beach. "Masa, my child, come to me; hasten to your father's arms!" he cries; so loudly that his voice drowns the noise of the rushing waves. But no one replies. Masa is not there. A wild cry of terror resounds from his lips, he sinks down upon the shore exhausted, and stares out at the waves as though he would ask, "Have you seen my child; has she gone to you; has she sought a resting-place in your cold bosom?" Yet why should she do so? Masa is happy and loves her father, why does she then torment him thus? Masa must have gone to some of her neighbors. She has many friends; every woman and girl that Masa knows loves her on account of her happy disposition, her innocence, and her loveliness. She will have returned home long since. Djumeila cannot know that her master has gone out, or she would have called him. "Masa is surely at home!" The old man returns to his dwelling with the quick step of a youth. Djumeila is standing in the door-way, weeping and lamenting loudly "Master, my child, my Masa, is gone! Allah be merciful, and take me from this earth, now that my Masa is no longer here!" The sheik says not a word. He neither speaks nor weeps, but only beckons to the men who have been drawn to the spot by Djumeila's loud lamentations. When they have come near, he bends down close to them, as if to prevent even the wind from hearing him, and whispers in their ears: "My child is gone. Masa is not in the mosque. Masa is not on the beach, and is not with the neighbors!" The men regarded him with dismay; and, supposing they must have misunderstood his words, ask each other, "What did the sheik say?" He then shrieks, as if to make himself heard by the heavens and the earth, by the mountains and the sea: "My child is gone! Masa is not in her father's house, Masa is not at the mosque, and not on the beach! Where is my child?" He then swoons away. Djumeila now rushes down the street, and her cries of anguish resound through all Praousta. "Masa, the sheik's daughter, has disappeared! Where is Masa? Up, ye men and women, let us search for her. Let us search everywhere-- among the rocks and cliffs, in the hills and in the valleys. Masa, the sheik's daughter, is gone!" From every house, men, women, and children, rush out and gaze at each other in sorrow and dismay. "Masa, our sheik's daughter, has vanished! let us search for her." And now they begin the search. People are to be seen running in every direction--to the rocks above, down to the shore. The air everywhere resounds with their loud cries: "Masa, daughter of the sheik, where are you?" Suddenly the music of the trumpet, cymbal and fife, and the roll of the drum, breaks in upon and mingles with these tumultuous cries. With warlike music the company of soldiers from the nearest city marches into Praousta, in accordance with the command given by the governor to his captain. The men have been on the march all night, and now enter the village in the broad light of day, with their band playing. The military music rings out so loud and clear that the cries of lamentation are no longer heard. The crowd stand still and gaze at the gaudily-attired men who are marching into Cavalla. The tschorbadji is standing with his distinguished guest, Cousrouf Pacha, in the court-yard of the palace. He has requested him to be present at the reception of the soldiers. The pacha's countenance and bearing are unchanged--all haughtiness and dignity--only his cheeks are paler and his glance more threatening than usual. As he now turns toward the gate of the court-yard, Mohammed Ali, the boulouk bashi, appears for the first time, attired in his handsome, glittering uniform, advancing with his company toward the palace. On the governor's left stands his son Osman, who has risen from his couch, overcoming for the moment his weakness and ill-health in order to participate in the triumph of witnessing Mohammed Ali lead his company, as boulouk bashi, for the first time. Yes, there comes Mohammed Ali, marching at the head of his company, to the sound of the martial music. He holds his sword uplifted in his right hand, and salutes the governor as he approaches by lowering its point to the ground with a deferential glance. He recognizes his friend, and Osman joyously returns the greeting. Mohammed seems to him entirely changed at this moment, his figure taller and more powerful. His countenance is manly and joyous, his eyes sparkle with a mysterious fire, a smile plays about his lips, and his whole bearing is firm and commanding. It is not Osman alone who sees this change. Cousrouf Pacha has also observed it. His countenance darkens. He compresses his lips as if to repress a curse that is struggling for utterance. Yet he retains his air of indifference and grave countenance, though his cheeks grow a shade paler, and his brow somewhat darker. The band plays a lively air. Mohammed conducts his soldiers before the eyes of the governor and his guest through a series of movements and evolutions which he has long since practiced in secret. As they now advance toward him, "Right about, halt!" resounds Mohammed's word of command; and his soldiers stand there like a wall. "Well done," said Cousrouf Pacha, with a gracious inclination of the head. He then added in a loud voice, in order that Mohammed should hear him: "You see, governor, street boys can watch soldiers exercising to some purpose. Mohammed has not stared at them on the street in vain." He turns and leaves the court-yard, repairs to his private apartments, and calls the two eunuchs who had held the fruitless watch at the gate the previous night. "When the soldiers have left the court-yard, twelve of their number will be placed at your disposal. Let them load their muskets and unsheath their swords. Then go to Praousta, to the sheik's house, and demand the restoration of my slave. Demand it in my name. If her father refuses, search the house and every place connected with it. Break open the doors if he refuses to unlock them. If you do not find her there, search the other houses of the village. I must have her! If you do not find her to-day, then find her to-morrow or the next day. I will allow you a week's time in which to get possession of this runaway slave. If you do not return her, your heads shall fall! Remember that! Stop, one thing more: observe and watch the new boulouk bashi. Select some of my servants to follow him day and night, and to observe every thing he does, yet without letting him become aware of it, for he is a shrewd lad and a daring one, too. Now, you can go." While the company is still standing drawn up in the court-yard, the tschorbadji beckons Mohammed Ali to his side, and enters the palace with him. "Mohammed, it is evident that you will become a brave and efficient soldier. You have courage; now learn to control your anger, to govern yourself, and then you will know how to command others. See, this purse filled with gold-pieces is the captain's salary for three months, which I pay in advance, as the young boulouk bashi will have to incur some necessary expenses, and will therefore be glad to accept a payment in advance." Mohammed thanked the governor, and received the first salary of his new dignity with perfect composure, though a sudden sparkling in his eyes indicated how much he rejoiced over it. Osman, however, can read his friend's countenance well. As the governor turns away, Osman throws his arms around Mohammed's neck and whispers in his ear: "You stand there radiant like a hero, and all the bliss of the world and of love, too, is reflected in your countenance. O Mohammed, father says you should learn to control yourself, and I am satisfied you can. When my friend is harassed with sorrow and care his countenance bears no evidence of it, but happiness is not to be repressed and driven back to the heart in this way. It illumines the face of man like the sun. But I warn you, Mohammed, it is sometimes dangerous to let one's countenance shine so. It easily awakens suspicion in the breast of an enemy, and he meditates revenge. Beware! Beware! Mohammed regards his friend as though he did not understand him. "What do you mean, Osman?" "Nothing, nothing at all, Mohammed, except that it is sometimes dangerous to allow one's happiness to be observed. Bear this in mind, my friend, and draw a veil over your radiant countenance." CHAPTER IX WHERE IS SHE? In Praousta, all was again uproar and confusion. Eight eunuchs of the mighty pacha, Cousrouf, accompanied by a detachment of twelve soldiers, came down from Cavalla at noon. They went directly to the house of the sheik, and demanded to see him. Djumeila, her eyes red with weeping, came to the door and told them her master was ill with grief and anxiety on account of the disappearance of his daughter. The eunuchs pushed her aside, and penetrated, in spite of her cries and attempts to bar their passage, into the room where the sheik lay on his divan, with pallid face and staring gaze. His lamentations were heartrending. His quivering lips continually cried: "Where is my daughter, where is my child?" They roughly forced him to his feet, and with savage threats demanded of the old man that he should deliver over to them their master's slave, his daughter Masa. Aroused from his torpor, he stares at them in amazement: "Slave!" cried he. "And you call her Masa, and my daughter; and you say it is she? Who calls Masa, daughter of the sheik, his slave?" "Our master does," said they--"our master, Cousrouf Pacha." "How can the stranger dare to call the daughter of a free man, a free girl, his slave?" "He dares do it because it is so," replied the eunuchs, shrugging their shoulders; "Masa sold herself to his excellency, our gracious master, to Cousrouf Pacha, when she procured your release by paying the second tax. You thought it was done out of kindness. No, Masa sold herself to our gracious master, Cousrouf Pacha, for one hundred gold sequins." "That is false; you lie, you wretches! You lie in all you say! You lie!" cried the sheik. He now stood erect, regarding them threateningly. "Do not dare to speak to me thus again! Justice and law still live! No one can say that Masa, my daughter, is a slave; and may he who says it stand accursed before Allah and the prophets!" The two eunuchs threw themselves upon him and held him fast. They then called two of the soldiers to their assistance, and bound him hand and foot. This done, they threw the old man contemptuously down upon his divan, and proceeded to ransack every part of the house in search of Masa, their master's runaway slave. There lay the sheik, bound and helpless, groaning and lamenting: "I am mad! I hear that which is not. I hear voices say that which cannot be. No, I am mad! It is impossible that Masa, the daughter of the Sheik of Praousta, is the slave of the stranger Turk! Impossible that I can have heard such a thing! Death or even madness is approaching me. It creeps stealthily toward me and stares at me wildly. O Masa, my daughter, come save your father!" About him all was still, but in the rooms above was an uproar. He heard the heavy footsteps in the upper apartments, into which, until now, no man save the father had ever entered. They are going from room to room, throwing the daughter's things about, ransacking her bedchamber, overthrowing furniture, and looking under carpets and mattresses, searching everywhere for the only daughter of the poor sheik. Then they go to the yard, to the stables. Masa is sought everywhere. But, Allah be praised, she cannot be found! Without, before the door, stand the men and women of the village in a wide circle, gazing with dismay upon the eunuchs and the twelve soldiers, who now come out of the door, fall in line before the house, and demand of the people to tell them where Masa, the sheik's daughter, is. "We know not. We have not seen her. How can we tell you what has become of Masa, the sheik's only daughter? She was as pure and good as ever girl was. No one looked at her. Who can tell where she is?" "This is all pretence. Enough! we will go from house to house and search for Masa!" With cries of rage the men attempt to oppose them, but the strange soldiers who have just arrived know no pity. They use their swords vigorously upon those who oppose them; the sight of blood terrifies the others, and the cries of the wounded silence them. The eunuchs' soldiers are allowed to enter each house, for the men of Praousta are too poor to be able to provide for more than one wife, and the poor man's wife has no separate, secluded apartments. She goes about in the house unveiled, and attends to her domestic occupations while her husband is out hunting or fishing. The search of the eunuchs and soldiers for the girl is therefore easily conducted; in each house there is but one wife and she is unveiled, as are also the children; the maidens, however, timidly shrink back and draw their veils more closely about them. The strange soldiers, however, do not go so far in their boldness as to raise the veils of the girls. And what would it avail them to do so? Neither they nor the eunuchs have ever seen the face of the sheik's daughter. "It is useless to search farther," murmured the eunuchs, after having looked through the last house in the village, without finding Masa. "It is useless. It was useless to look for her elsewhere than in the sheik's house, and there we did not find her. The law forbids our doing more, and the tschorbadji, when he placed the soldiers at the disposal of our gracious master, and ordered them to accompany us, expressly commanded that we should not enrage the men of Praousta to desperation, or to any thing contrary to law." "But remember, brother," said the other eunuch, "what our master said. We must bring him back this runaway slave or we lose our heads! And truly I would much rather keep my head on my shoulders than have it rolled to the ground." "And so would I mine," said the first. "Therefore we will do all we can to get possession of this slave. A week is a long time, and I hardly think we shall have to wait so long." "There is one other matter we must not lose sight of," murmured the first eunuch, as they ascended the stairway to Cavalla, followed by the soldiers. "We are to watch the crazy young captain, the boulouk bashi, and report all he does, to our master. It seems to me there may be some connection between the young boulouk bashi and the flight of the slave. Let us keep our eyes open, for our heads are at stake." And with gloomy looks they presented themselves to their master on their return to the palace, to inform him that they had made thorough search for Masa in the sheik's house, and had not found her. "And have you nothing to report concerning the young man, Mohammed Ali?" asked the pasha. The eunuchs informed him that they had not yet seen him, having as yet been wholly occupied with their search for the escaped slave; they would, however, have something to report to his excellency concerning the boulouk bashi on the following morning, or that very evening, perhaps. "Who knows where Mohammed Ali now is?" "He has not been seen at the palace since the reception of the soldiers in the court-yard." "He must have gone to the hut his mother once occupied, as he often does when he wishes to be alone." Of late he had been absent less than usual, having promised his friend Osman to live and stay with him. But now that he is captain of a company, it would perhaps not become him to remain at the palace as the tschorbadji's guest; for this reason he would probably go to his own hut to take up his abode there. Yes, he has passed the night in his own little house, and he has just quitted it and walked into the main street of the city, on his way to the store of the merchant Lion. The merchant saw him coming, and hastened forward to congratulate him on the high honor conferred upon him, and to rejoice over the stately appearance of the young man, who pleased him well in his uniform, with his sword at his side. "Truly a beautiful uniform, Mohammed Ali, and I have but one regret, and that is that your mother, Sitta Khadra, is not here to see you in your magnificence. How she would rejoice to see her son, her heart's darling, her Mohammed Ali, in all his glory!" "I, too, wish my dear mother, Sitta Khadra, were here now," said Mohammed, with a sigh. "I have never before missed and needed her as much as now; and you are right, too, in thinking she would rejoice could she see me now. Yes, with all her heart, Mr. Lion. Ah life, were beautiful indeed, if Death were not always standing threateningly before us! He takes from us what we love most, and esteem highest; we must ever be on our guard against him, and keep our door barred that he may not steal into our midst and rob us of some fair life." The merchant regards him with amazement. He has never heard the young boulouk bashi talk in this sentimental manner before, and it surprises him too, to see his countenance so changed--so radiant, serene, and cloudless, the chaste, thoughtful brows--so bright, the flash of his large brown eyes. "Mohammed, my young friend, what bliss has Fortune bestowed on you? Tell your friend the secret; for, truly all that concerns and pleases you, gladdens my own heart. Tell me what has worked this change in you?" "And you still ask? You see me in my uniform--in my glory, as you call it--it is this that has worked the change!" The merchant shook his head. "No, it is not that, Mohammed Ali; that which sparkles in your eyes, and resounds from your lips in such joyous words, has nothing to do with your uniform or with your new dignity. It must be something entirely different; yet, if you do not wish to tell me, I will ask you no further. May Allah be with you in all things, and I will entreat the same of my God. I think and trust both will hear the prayer, for they are one and the same, after all. Now, my young friend, come into my store with me and let us chat with each other while we smoke the nargile, and refresh ourselves with a cup of coffee.--Ho! ye lads; Admeh, bring us coffee and the nargile, with some of the finest tobacco--some of that intended for the sultana at Stamboul, that is to be sent off to-morrow. There is great joy in my house to-day, for Mohammed Ali, the young boulouk bashi, is here." He seats himself on a cushion covered with Persian carpet, and requests Mohammed to seat himself on another at his side. He does as requested, but it does not escape the merchant's observant eye that he conforms to this hospitable usage with impatience, and does not wish to remain long. He therefore does not urge him to remain when he, after a short time, rises and asks the merchant to go with him to the store. He wishes to buy all sorts of things. He has received his first salary from the tschorbadji to-day, and desires to spend a portion of it for some of the pretty things of which there are such quantities and varieties in the merchant's store. "It depends on what you wish, Mohammed. Is it carpets or cushions? or is it female attire or jewelry? Do you want mirrors, embroidered veils, or silken shawls? What is it you want?" Somewhat confused and embarrassed, Mohammed looks at the merchant and hardly knows what to say. "Then let me have a carpet; I wish to spread it out in my room. I have, until now, changed nothing in my hut, but have left it just as it was when Sitta Khadra lived in it. Now, however, it seems to me that it would not perhaps become the boulouk bashi to continue to live so wretchedly." "Yes, the old story--with office comes pride," said the merchant, laughing. "The boulouk bashi, of course, needs carpets and all sorts of furniture. Here is an arm-chair inlaid with mother-of-pearl; does it suit? Here are Persian carpets; the colors are a little faded, and you can have them at a low price." "No, nothing with faded colors. Let me have your most beautiful carpet! Let the ground be white and covered with flowers, with roses and violets; and I wish, too, they could have life and fragrance!" "Oho, Mr. Boulouk Bashi!" cried the merchant, laughing, and raising his finger threateningly. "Now the secret is out; you are in, love! This carpet is not for yourself, but for some beautiful woman. Ah, yes, I have heard something about this affair before, and now I know it is true." "What have you heard, sir? What is it that is said of me?" asked Mohammed, gravely, his countenance suddenly darkening. "Well, people ask why it is that Osman, the tschorbadji's son, is so very affectionate to you, and why the governor himself has always so distinguished you, and now made you boulouk bashi?" "I had supposed it was because I deserved it," said Mohammed, hastily, "and I thought Osman showed his affection because he loved the friend who had grown up with him." "He assuredly does love you, and the tschorbadji also rewards you on account of your merit, or he would not have done so at all, and would not have chosen you for what he desires of you." "And what does he desire of me? For what has he chosen me?" "It is said he wishes you to become the husband of the beautiful Marina, his niece." "I do not even know this lady," said Mohammed, shrugging his shoulders. "You do not know her, but she perhaps knows you," said the merchant, smiling. "She is very beautiful, it is said. She is married, as you are aware, to my rival, the merchant across the street, I have observed that this fair lady opens her shutters, to peep out at Mohammed, whenever he passes by. The neighbors say this is why her husband has become jealous, and threatens to drive her away, if she continues to look after the young men. You now perceive, Mohammed, that Marina, the tschorbadji's niece, has an eye on you, and perhaps even two, and that her husband knows it. The peace of the house has thus been broken on your account, and the people say the tschorbadji will now take his niece home again, and that you are to marry her afterward. It is a good match, Mohammed, a very good match. I shall be disappointed if you do not marry this lady. She is rich, very rich; and are you aware that, with your epaulets, your uniform, and your handsome sword, you must have money. Moreover, my son, he who intends to rise in the world must have a great deal of money! It is not through his own merit that a man is advanced. If he is poor, he remains in the dust. You know I have offered to assist you, but you refused me because you did not wish to accept benefits, and you were right. My advice you can, however, accept; and my advice is, marry the beautiful, the rich Marina, when her husband divorces her, and sufficient time has elapsed. She is very young, younger than you; my young friend Mohammed numbers eighteen years, and the tschorbadji's young niece only fifteen. Take my advice, and preserve your heart until it is time to let its wings grow, and then stretch out your hand after the fair Marina." "Thanks for your advice," cried Mohammed, laughing. Never before had the merchant heard him laugh so heartily; never before had he seen him make such a display of his white teeth. Until to-day, Mohammed had been a remarkably grave youth. What can it be that makes him look so joyous and laugh so heartily all of a sudden? "Let us, however, hear no more about this fair Marina. I do not know her, and have never seen her. That is to say, I may have seen her once or twice, with Osman, when we happened to pass the veiled woman and her husband on the street, and I believe she did stand still and look after us. I thought, at the time, it was on Osman's account, and probably it was. How could the rich lady have turned to look at the poor lad Mohammed Ali? And now to other matters. Show me goods, show me carpets, and I want the best and the handsomest. The carpet is to lie where my mother's mat once lay, and on which she died; and this spot cannot be too handsomely adorned. Therefore, give me a costly carpet." "Let it be just as you say," said the merchant, smiling. He then called his servants, and ordered them to bring down his handsomest carpets, and spread them out before the young captain, in order that he might select one. "You want nothing else, only a carpet?" Mohammed turned his head a little to one side, and avoided meeting the merchant's keen gaze. " O yes, a number of other things. I want some table-ware, cups, glasses, and the like. I also want," he continued talking rapidly, and with forced indifference, "I also want a warm woollen cloak, such as women wear. I promised a cloak to an old friend of my mother. Give me a warm woollen cloak." The merchant made no reply. He only smiled significantly, and brought out the goods; dark, plain goods, such as became an old woman, and a friend of poor Sitta Khadra. But Mohammed promptly rejected it. That would not be nice enough for a present. He wanted better, finer material, and in lighter colors. The merchant expressed no astonishment, but silently brought out finer goods. Mohammed selected the very handsomest cloak for the old friend of his deceased mother. Finally, he timidly asked for finger- rings and bracelets. "Also for the old friend of your good mother Khadra?" inquired the merchant, with an air of mock gravity. Mohammed did not reply; he had probably not heard him. He quietly selected, from the box handed him, a beautiful ring set with a precious stone, then four beautiful cups and saucers of the finest Chinese porcelain, and a variety of other articles necessary for housekeeping. He concluded by demanding a pair of pillows and coverlids. Mr. Lion asks no more questions; he now knows that Mohammed intends to marry, and is furnishing his house. He is satisfied, and lets his young friend have all he has selected at half the price he would have charged other purchasers. Mohammed joyfully paid the price, and gazed at the beautiful articles he had purchased, with sparkling eyes. "If you wish it, Mohammed," said the merchant, "I will send a servant with you." "Thank you; I am going to my house, and he can accompany me with the things." Mohammed took leave of the merchant, and left the store, the servant following heavily laden. After a few moments Mohammed, however, turned, and came back to the merchant, who was standing on the threshold looking after him. "One thing more, dear sir. You are my friend, and, as I well know, mean well by me," said he, in low, hasty tones. "Certainly, Mohammed Ali, and gladly would I prove to you my friendship." "You can do so; tell no one of my purchases--no one," replied Mohammed with a look of entreaty. The merchant promised to be silent on the subject. "Thank you, kind friend. I am happy; yet all depends on Allah's blessing." He pressed the merchant's hand once more, and walked out, hastily beckoning to the servant, who had remained standing in the street, to follow him. He then walked on to the little hut of his mother Khadra. He pushes open the door, and the servant follows him into the room. The bundle is laid on the floor, on the place where his mother died, and Mohammed generously and proudly, like a man of rank, hands the servant a gratuity, and bids him return. He walks off well pleased, and Mohammed is now left alone in his mother's hut. An old woman is sitting just opposite the hut. She was there when he entered, smoking a short pipe, her arms crossed on her knees. She looked about carelessly, only now and then casting a glance at the house of the young boulouk bashi, who had locked himself in. Mohammed had thought nothing of her presence. What cared he for the old woman there on the stone, smoking her pipe? When, after a short time, he steps out of his hut, she stretches out her hand and begs for alms. Hardly looking at her, he draws a copper coin from his pocket, gives it to her and walks on. The old woman keeps her seat, and mutters a few words to herself. Mohammed walks on rapidly. A boy is skipping along on the other side of the street, whistling a merry air. What does this concern Mohammed? He walks on down the street on the one side, the boy follows him on the other. Mohammed heeds the boy as little as he had heeded the old woman. What does he care for the boy, who seems wholly absorbed in his musical efforts? He entered the store of the merchant, who dealt in all kinds of provisions; in olives, meats, chocolate, sugar, and eggs. Mohammed purchases some of all these articles, and it amuses and astonishes the merchant to see the young officer become, of a sudden, his own housewife. But he does not venture to say so, or ask any questions; Mohammed's grave looks and bearing forbid any attempt at raillery. A servant is ordered to put the things in a basket, and take them to his house. As he walks out of the store again, he hears the boy's shrill whistling in the distance. He pays no attention to this, and walks on quietly. The whistling suddenly ceases, and the boy, who had posted himself in the vicinity, so that Mohammed could not see him on coming out, now runs after him, stepping close to the basket in passing; he casts a quick, searching glance at the articles it contained, as if taking note in expectation of being called on to give an account of its contents. The old woman is still sitting opposite Mohammed's house, reposing there, apparently, after smoking her pipe. Her head is thrown back, resting against the door, and her eyes are closed; she seems to be sleeping. CHAPTER X THE DEPARTURE. A new and great event occupied the attention of the inhabitants of Cavalla and Praousta on the following morning. A large and magnificent ship had entered the harbor during the night, a vessel of the Turkish navy: its dark-red flag, with the grand-sultan's crown on its dark field, showed it to be such. The sailors were attired in glittering uniforms, and on the deck stood a tent embroidered with gold, beneath it a luxurious couch of swelling cushions. The ship was still handsomer than the one on which Cousrouf Pacha had arrived three years before. But then he had come to Cavalla as an exile, and had not been sent away with the same ceremony with which they were now prepared to welcome him back. For it is already known, and the intelligence has rapidly spread, that this ship has come from Stamboul to convey Cousrouf Pacha back to his home; and, therefore, was it so festively decorated with flags, and carpets, and garlands of flowers. His friend the grand-admiral, Hussein Pacha, has been working in his interest, and the sunlight of his master's favor is once more shed upon the head of the exile. With great dignity Cousrouf received the captain, who bowed profoundly before him, while those who accompanied him threw themselves upon the ground, touching the earth with their foreheads. He received the imperial missive with perfect composure, opened it, and inclined his head with a gracious expression of countenance, as though he were dispensing and not receiving a favor. "'Tis well, captain--I am ready! Our most gracious emperor and master has written to me, and as he WISHES"--(he emphasized this word; the sultan only expresses a wish, he does not command Cousrouf Pacha)--"as he wishes me to return to Stamboul with all convenient speed, keep every thing in readiness to sail." "Will your excellency sail to-day?" asked the captain. Cousrouf Pacha slowly shook his head. "I do not know. It may be to- day, and yet it may not be possible to depart for a week. It depends on circumstances which I cannot entirely control; but keep everything in readiness, as I may, should matters take a favorable turn, be enabled to depart at any hour." Walking backward, his head profoundly inclined, the captain quits the saloon; his suite creep out on their knees. Cousrouf stands haughtily erect, gazing proudly after them. When they had gone out, he utters a cry, a command, and a side-door opens, and two of his eunuchs, his confidants, enter the room. "Make your report!" he exclaims, sternly, as he raises his hand threateningly, and then lets it fall again to his side. "Tell me, dogs; where is the runaway slave?" They threw themselves on their knees before him, and crossed their arms on their breasts. "O lord and master, we do not know." "You do not know, you dogs? Then you are determined to be chastised?" cries the pacha. "You have no trace of her whatever?" "No, O master; not as yet." "Yet you are aware that I have only given you seven days' time? If you do not restore her to me within that time, your heads fall! You have not forgotten that?" "No, master, we have not forgotten it." "You are wise," said the pacha, quietly. "What about Mohammed Ali; have you caused his movements to be closely watched?" "Yes, master, we have done so." "Then speak," commanded the pacha, falling back on his cushions with closed eyes, slowly smoking his chibouque, and opening his lips from time to time to allow a whiff of smoke to curl slowly upward. "Your report, dogs!" With ready tongues the eunuchs reported all the old woman and boy had observed. "Continue," commanded the pacha, as they both ceased speaking, "continue." "Master, we have nothing further to report." "You are a couple of blockheads," observed their gracious master. "Goods, table-ware, provisions--you know nothing else." "No, lord and master, we know of nothing else." "But the one thing, the most important, tell me: where did the boulouk bashi pass the night?" "Master, we believe he passed it in his house." "You only believe it? This night you must know. But take notice of this: Be careful not to injure himself or his property. His person and his property shall not be touched this I have sworn. Yet know this: If you do not tell me tomorrow morning where the boulouk bashi has passed the night, you shall both receive the bastinado, and after such a fashion that you will find walking anything but pleasant, and yet I will have you driven through the city in search of the information you are so slow in getting." With a gesture of the hand he motioned to them to leave the room, and they withdrew as they had entered, on their knees. After closing the door behind them, they jumped hastily to their feet. "The bastinado! Did you hear?" asked the one, "We must find out at every cost where the boulouk bashi passes the night. But how can we? We are neither to injure his property, nor to touch him or what belongs to him. We are not allowed to open his door or break into his house; what are we to do?" "I have thought of something," said the other. "Come, I will tell you. Let us get everything ready." Dark clouds covered the heavens, shutting out the light of the moon and stars, and night sank down over the earth earlier than usual. The people had retired to rest, and the houses were dark. Suddenly a bright light illumined the surrounding darkness, and cries for help resounded through the air. The house that stood opposite Mohammed's is enveloped in flames, and its occupants rush out yelling and screaming for help. The old woman and the boy ran over the way and knocked at the window-shutters of the young boulouk bashi. "Come out, come out, Mohammed Ali! Save yourself! Your house has commenced to burn!" All was still in the house, as though Mohammed knew the voice lied, that there was no danger, and that he could sleep on quietly. They knock at the shutters, they shake the door, but all remains silent within; the light of the fire does not awake him, the cries do not reach his ear. He is not there; he is assuredly not passing the night in his house. It has certainly been set on fire in vain; the poor people have sacrificed their property, and the spies have failed to discover where Mohammed Ali has passed the night. On the following morning howls and lamentations are heard in the lower apartments of the harem; from time to time the sound of blows can be distinguished, and then again howls and cries of pain. No one dares inquire into the cause of these outcries, for in his own apartments Cousrouf Pacha is master, and even the governor would not venture to call him to account for his treatment of his own servants. Osman lay on his cushions in the little portion of his garden that had alone been reserved for the use of himself and father, since Cousrouf Pacha had been occupying the remainder with his harem. He heard the howls and cries of pain that came from the harem, and bowed his head in sadness. "These poor wretches must suffer for it!" he murmured to himself. But suddenly his countenance brightens, as he sees his friend approaching in his glittering uniform, and he extends both hands to greet him. "I am delighted to see you, Mohammed, after this long absence!" "As I am you!" said the latter, his countenance radiant with smiles. "Forgive me for not having come to see you all day yesterday. I was so busy with my soldiers, and still more so with myself, Osman! I have had much to learn to keep the soldiers from observing that I was a mere beginner in the art of war." "And that is all you have to say in excuse for your conduct?" said Osman, looking searchingly into his friend's countenance. "That is all," replied he, hastily, endeavoring to look his friend full in the face. But be could not, and looked aside. Osman notices this, and nods his head with a smile full of meaning. "Pray seat yourself at my side Mohammed? Let me throw my arm around your neck, and then listen to me, my friend. Offer no resistance, for I must confess that your friend Osman has been employing spies for some time past, and be knows more than Mohammed supposes, and much more than Consrouf Pacha dreams of." "What do you know?" asked Mohammed, trembling slightly. "I pray you tell me, Osman!" "Listen, Mohammed," said Osman, bending toward him, in a low voice. "Lamentations have just resounded from the interior of the pacha's harem. Two of his eunuchs have received the bastinado, and do you know why? Because they could not inform him where Mohammed Ali passed the last and the preceding night." "For that reason?" asked Mohammed. "I was in my house. If Cousrouf Pacha had himself asked me, I should have told him I was there!" Osman gently shook his head. "No, Mohammed, you were not in your house; and Cousrouf Pacha well knows you were not. Do you know why? He lighted a lamp to look for you." "A lamp?" asked Mohammed. "Yes, a lamp! And do you know what this lamp consisted of? Of the house that stood opposite yours. They set it on fire, and knocked at your doors and window shutters to awaken you.--And, if you had been there, you would have heard the outcries of the people, and would assuredly have gone to their assistance. No, Mohammed, you were not in your house last night!" "I was above, on the summit of the rock," said Mohammed, hastily, and in a somewhat embarrassed manner. "No," said Osman, gently. "You forget, Mohammed, that you came down in the evening with the four pigeons you had shot, and you also forget that you went on down to Praousta as it grew dark." "No," said Mohammed, hastily, "no, that I did not do!" "Yes, you did, my friend," said Osman, quietly. "A cripple stood by the way-side, whom you brushed against in passing by; he cursed you, and followed you for a while, continually cursing, but you walked on without heeding him." Mohammed looked at him in dismay. "How do you know all this?" "I told you before that I had spies who watched both you and the pacha. I employ them because I love and wish to protect my Mohammed!" He placed his lips close to his ear, and whispered: "To protect you and the white dove that has sought safety in your bosom. Be still! Do not deny me this favor! Consider that your happiness is also that of your friend, and that he watches over you when you are imprudent in the rashness of your overflowing bliss. Listen, Mohammed! You went down to the sea-shore, to the secret place among the cliffs, known only to you and me! Do you not remember the time when, filled with anxiety on your account, we were seeking you in that vicinity, and Mr. Lion saw you creep out of a crevice in the rocks? You afterward pointed out to me the place to which it led, and--" "For Heaven's sake, mention to no one that there is a cave there, and that you know the way to it!" said Mohammed, anxiously. "Did I not tell you that I was watching over you?" said his friend, gently. "No one shall hear of it, only be careful yourself that no one sees you enter it. You are surrounded by spies. Cousrouf Pacha is called away, and the ship lies in the harbor awaiting him. And do you know what he told the captain who asked him if he would sail to- day? He replied 'It is uncertain, it depends on circumstances not entirely within my control.' Do you know what that means? He will not sail until he has discovered and punished Masa, the runaway slave, as he calls her. Do you know the nature of the punishment administered to runaway female slaves, and to women who have been guilty of infidelity to their masters?" Mohammed shuddered. "By Allah, Osman, you do not mean to say that the pacha would carry out here, with us, where the cruel laws of the harem are unknown, the punishment administered to runaway female slaves among the Turks?" Osman nodded in assent. "You must know, Mohammed, that the commander, now fully restored to the favor of the imperial majesty, in Stamboul, has the right, wherever he may be, to punish his slaves, that is, his property, as he pleases. To save her father, Masa made herself his property. We, my father and I, were witnesses, when she received the money, and when he said to her: 'Here is the money you asked me for! I give it gladly, but you know what I give it for, and you have agreed to the bargain!'" "O unhappy woman!" groaned Mohammed. "Be still, my Mohammed!" said Osman, in warning tones. "Be on your guard! You are beset with spies, for these eunuchs are battling for their lives. If they have not restored Masa alive to their master in a week, their heads fall; he has sworn this, and they know he will keep his word. They are cunning, and have sharp eyes. Mohammed, if you can avoid it, do not go down into the grotto to-day. Everything pends on deceiving the spies and putting them on a false track. Therefore, pass the night in your own house." "Impossible! quite impossible!" said Mohammed, his eyes kindling at the thought of his love. "It cannot be, even if it should cost my heart's blood! I cannot remain in my house." "Then remain with me. Do so for her sake. I tell you your white dove is in danger! I am better informed than the rest, for I have in my service a spy, a good angel, whose eyes rest neither by day nor night, and whose ears hear everything that concerns Mohammed Ali." "And who is this angel? " asked Mohammed. "You know her well," said Osman. "It is Marina, my dear cousin. She often goes into the pacha's harem, and has formed the acquaintance of two of the young women, who tell her a great many things in their thoughtlessness. Nothing escapes Marina's ear, for I will confess, my friend, that she loves the young boulouk bashi, and is ready to separate herself from her jealous husband on his account. But I candidly told her that he did not love her, and that she must bury her wishes. She wept long, Mohammed, but when she had dried her eyes, she said she loved him so dearly that she would do all that lay in her power to secure his happiness, and that she would watch over him as his friend." "She is a noble woman," said Mohammed. "Bear my greeting to her, but I pray you tell her nothing more concerning me." "You may rest assured," said Osman. "We do not confide our dearest secrets to women, for we are not always certain of their silence. She knows nothing, except that the pacha is your enemy, and that the latter has told these women that he is seeking an opportunity to destroy you. You have often offended him with your hasty words and threatening manner, and Cousrouf Pacha is not the man to pardon any offence. Marina is well aware of this, and therefore observes and listens to everything." "Does Cousrouf Pacha know that there is any connection between me and Masa?" "Yes, he is a close observer, and, on the morning of the flight, he read in your countenance, as I also did, that there was no happier man in Cavalla than Mohammed Ali. But yesterday his countenance was gloomy, to-day it is radiant. Cousrouf Pacha did not fail to divine the cause of this sudden transformation. Therefore be on your guard, my friend, and wait until it is dark and all are asleep before you go to your cave." "I will do so; I will be careful, Osman--I swear it. Accept my warmest thanks for your care and watchfulness. Allah will some day enable me to prove my gratitude, and will also permit you to be a witness of your friend's happiness. And now, farewell, and to- morrow, if it be Allah's will, I shall return to you in joyousness and safety." "May Allah grant it!" said Osman. "Allah be with you, and the prophet illumine your heart! One thing more, my Mohammed: Lovers, it is said, are forgetful; the warning voice easily escapes, their hearing, and with open eyes they dream blissful dreams which make them oblivious of reality. It may therefore be well to arouse them sometimes, and I will try to awaken my dear dreamer. If you hear the report of a pistol in the night, consider that it is Osman warning you to be on your guard. But if two other shots soon after follow the first, this signal shall announce that danger threatens, and that I am calling you. In that case, come to me at once, no matter what time of night it may be. I shall await you. Now you may go, my friend, and Allah be with you!"