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MOHAMMED ALI AND HIS HOUSE
An Historical Romance
by L. MUHLBACH
TRANSLATED FROM THE 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!"
CHAPTER XI
THE TRIPLE OATH.
"We must assure his safety," murmured Osman, as he looked after his
friend, who was hastily leaving the garden. "His life must at least
be sacred, and I will go at once with my father to Cousrouf Pacha.
It is a sacrifice, for I hate this proud, overbearing man. He seems
to consider himself as conferring a favor when he condescends to
accept our hospitality. I hate him! Yet I will humiliate myself for
my friend's sake, and play the humble and devoted servant. I shall
find strength to do so, for it is for Mohammed and his white dove.
Yes, I will go with my father to the pacha's apartments."
A quarter of an hour later Tschorbadji Hassan, with a startled and
sorrowful expression of countenance entered the room where Cousrouf
Pacha lay reclining on his soft cushions, dreamily smoking his
chibouque.
"Is it, then, really true? The whole house is filled with dismay and
regret. Is it true that you intend leaving us tomorrow?"
"Perhaps," replied the pacha, composedly, rising slowly from his
cushions to quiet the governor, with haughty condescension.
"So soon? Then it is indeed true? We had heard so, but we could not
and would not believe it. We love you so dearly that we shall
unwillingly see you depart. Even my son, my poor sick Osman, who
cannot walk up a stairway because of his weakness, has requested
that he may be permitted to come in person to take leave of you, and
to beg that you will remember and be gracious to him in the future
also. Will your excellency permit his servants to bring him in?"
Cousrouf Pacha made no reply, but arose, walked hastily to the door,
opened it himself, and stepped out to Osman, who lay on the couch,
beside which stood the slaves who had brought him up.
"Osman, I thank you for this proof of your friendly consideration.--
Take hold now, ye dogs, and bear your master into the room!"
He walked beside the couch while the slaves bore it into the room,
and deposited it, at his command, beside his own cushions.
"Now come, too, tschorbadji, and seat yourself at our side, and let
us smoke the chibouque together for the last time."
"The pipe of peace, Cousrouf Pacha, as the savages do when seated
together for the last time in their wigwam," said Osman, smiling.
The pacha cast a searching glance at him.
"Tschorbadji, you have a very learned son. I know nothing of such
things, have never heard of them. Who smoke the pipe of peace?"
"The savages in America, when they become reconciled to their
enemies, and receive them in their wigwam."
"But that has no application to us. In the first place, we are not
savages, but very respectable and considerable people; and secondly,
I trust I am not receiving enemies here, with whom it is necessary
to smoke the pipe of peace."
"Certainly not, but very faithful friends and devoted servants, who
have come to bid you a last farewell."
"You are right, tschorbadji, a last farewell, I trust," said the
pacha, laughing. "For (and forgive me for saying so) it is horribly
dull here in your city of Cavalla. Your revolutionary fishermen and
the rest of the rabble here would make my life intolerable. I admire
you, tschorbadji, for having the courage to bear it--and
particularly you, my dear Osman. You should endeavor to obtain some
position in Stamboul. There you would recover your health; the rude
sea air here is assuredly injurious to your weak lungs."
"I wish he would do so," said the tscborbadji, with a sigh. "You are
certainly right, the keen sea air, and the rough storms that often
surge down from the mountains are injurious to my son, but it is
different in Stamboul, where one is protected from the surrounding
mountains. I wish he would go to Stamboul, and that you would assist
him in obtaining a suitable position there."
"Father," replied Osman, gently, "I will not separate myself from
you. Wherever you are there will I remain, for we two are
inseparable."
"Then a better place must be found for your father, Osman."
"If that could be, excellency, I should be happy indeed!" cried the
governor.
"I am under obligations to you, tschorbadji," observed the pacha,
bowing haughtily. "I am really greatly in your debt. With all my
servants I have been your guest for three years, and I vainly urged
you to accept payment. Indeed, I hardly dared speak of it to the
wealthy and distinguished tschorbadji, and it was not fitting to
attempt to remunerate him, But yet, I assure you, this weight of
gratitude rests heavily on me. I have accepted your hospitality
without recompense for these three long years. Now, however,
tschorbadji, now that Cousrouf Pacha is about to return to Stamboul,
he can at last repay this burden of gratitude and debt. You are my
friend, and I now beg you to tell me of something I can do for you.
Cousrouf Pacha now has power and influence which he will exert for
those he loves. Therefore I entreat you, tschorbadji, acquaint me
with your wishes."
"I have no other wishes than those of my son. They call me here an
affectionate father, and mention me as an example of passionate
paternal love, and they are right. My Osman is every thing to me; he
is my wife, child, sister, friend, comrade, my all. What Osman
wishes that is my wish also. Therefore, if it so pleases you,
transfer your gracious favor to my son, and grant his request, if he
has one to prefer."
"I swear by my beard, by Allah, and by the prophet, if Osman
expresses a wish, I will grant it certainly and surely. I repeat my
triple oath, and call Allah to witness it. What he requests I will
grant!"
"You have heard this oath, father, and Allah has heard it, too,"
said Osman, solemnly rising from his couch and turning the gaze of
his large luminous eyes full on the pacha's countenance. "I have a
wish, a great, a cherished wish."
"And can I grant it?"
"You can if you will."
"Certainly I will, for I am now bound by the triple oath. It is
sacred to every Moslem, and sacred to me at all times. So speak,
Osman, and I will grant what you request."
Osman rose from his seat, and the pale, weak youth stood there with
so solemn an expression that the tschorbadji and the pacha
involuntarily arose from their cushions.
"Cousrouf Pacha, hear my wish: I require, wish, and expect of you,
that you hold sacred, that is, that you neither personally, nor
through any one else, insult or injure the person of my friend
Mohammed Ali, the only being I love beside my father."
The pacha regarded him with a long, gloomy, threatening look, and
made no reply. Osman read in his face the struggle that was raging
in his soul, and continued in gentle tones:
"Cousrouf Pacha, look at me. I am a frail reed, liable to be thrown
to the ground by every breath of wind. I am a poor blade of grass
upon the sea-shore, liable to be swept to destruction by each wave.
Oh, grant me this request, in order that, while the sun still shines
for me, I may enjoy the last hours of my existence in peace!"
"Yes, do so, mighty pacha," cried the tschorbadji, bursting into
tears, and falling upon his knees with folded hands. "Cousrouf
Pacha, see me here at your feet, and grant my son's request in order
that he may live. I know that he loves Mohammed Ali, that he loves
him even more than his father. He fears that his friend is in danger
through you!"
"And why do you fear this, Osman?" asked the pacha, slowly and
angrily.
"I fear it," replied Osman, softly, "because I well know that
Mohammed has often offended you. He is still so young and impetuous,
and the consciousness of his poverty and obscure descent burdens his
soul and irritates him, in the presence of your greatness and
power."
"And yet he dares, in his littleness, to meet me with haughty words
and to look at me as though he were my equal! Should the boy not
step respectfully aside, and bow his head in humility, when he sees
me? You are right, Osman, I hate this proud, obstinate lad!"
"I have uttered my only wish," said Osman, gently. "You will grant
it, for I have your triple oath. I repeat my wish once more:
Cousrouf Pacba, protect and spare my friend Mohammed Ali; swear that
no harm shall be done him, either by you or by your servants. Let no
wicked hand seek his life, neither by poison, by weapons, nor by any
other means. Let him go his way in peace. By the triple oath which
you have sworn, I conjure you to grant this wish."
The pacha regarded him long and gloomily, and then bowed his head
slowly.
"I swore the triple oath, and Cousrouf Pacha has never yet broken
his word. Your wish is accorded; the life of this lad shall be
sacred to me henceforth; no hair of his head shall be injured; his
life shall not be sought either by poison, by dagger, or by other
means; he may go his way in peace, but woe to him if we should meet
elsewhere than here, in Cavalla, where I honor my host and my oath!
Be assured now and fear nothing. Mohammed Ali's life is sacred to
me; I swear it!"
"I am content, and I thank you. You have made me happier than I have
been for a long time. I do not deny that Mohammed has sometimes
deserved to be reprimanded for his conduct, but, I also repeat, he,
is still so young, his heart so fiery, his soul so full of ardor and
nobility. He will yet learn to conform to the customs of the world."
"I sincerely hope he may," said the pacha, quietly. "As yet he has,
however, not learned it; he should come to Stamboul--there he would
be taught to bend his proud neck. Tell me, Osman, have I now paid
off the debt of gratitude that rested on my shoulders?"
"You have now transferred it to our shoulders," exclaimed the
tschorbadji, ardently. "See how happy my Osman looks; how his
countenance is wreathed in smiles! There is no trace of sorrow or
pain in his features now; joy is restoring him to health; and I owe
this to you, and shall continue to thank you for it, when you are no
longer here. We wish you all happiness! Our friend and benefactor,
the great general, Cousrouf Pacha, will in the future be called on
to perform great things, and the report of his glory and power will
reach us here on our peninsula."
"I hope it may," said the pacha, softly, as he proudly inclined his
head. "Yes, I hope it may. My glory will resound throughout the
world, and may, perhaps, be trumpeted forth by the virgin Fame, so
favorable to me, even here in this rocky nest. The imperial majesty
in Stamboul has elected me to great things, and Allah will permit me
to live to fulfil them."
"He will certainly do so," protested the governor.--"And now, my
son, with his excellency's permission, I will call the slaves, and
have you carried down again. I am afraid we are trespassing on
valuable time, as his excellency will have many things to attend
to."
The pacha assented to this by his silence, and the governor hastened
to call the slaves, that they might bear his son down into the
garden.
The pacha pressed Osman's hand once more, assured him of his
friendship, and promised him solemnly that Mohammed need no longer
be fearful and anxious.
"And he is not," cried Osman, quickly; "he fears nothing."
"Be still, my son," exclaimed the governor, interrupting him
hastily; "his excellency only means that he will be considerate with
him, and that you will have nothing to fear on Mohammed's account.
And now, come, let us go."
He then bowed profoundly to the pacha, and walked out beside the
couch on which the slaves were carrying his son.
The pacha's countenance grew still darker when the door had closed
behind father and son.
"This Osman is shrewd," he murmured to himself. "He knows how to
divine one's thoughts.--Achmed and Ali, come in!"
The eunuchs glided in through the side-entrance, and remained
standing near the door, their heads profoundly inclined. He slowly
raised his hand, and beckoned to them to come nearer.
"What progress have you made in your search?"
The eunuchs threw themselves on the floor, profound humiliation
depicted on their faces.
"Mighty and gracious master! we have been tardy slaves, and humbly
acknowledge our fault; we will do all we can to redeem it, and we
hope soon to bring better news. Yes, we hope, gracious master, that
we shall soon be able to announce what our master desires to know."
"Then you have a trace?" said the pacha, his countenance lighting up
with joy.
"Yes, master, as yet only a trace; but we hope soon to have
certainty."
"Good, I will inquire no further. But of one thing I must remind
you: three days have already passed, within the next four days you
will have brought me the runaway slave or your heads fall."
"O gracious master, we hope to do so much sooner!"
"It is well," said the pacha, with a slight inclination of his
haughty head. "And now listen further: spread the report of my
departure tomorrow morning; say that Cousrouf Pacha will perhaps
depart this evening, with his harem and his servants, to return no
more."
"It shall be as our gracious master commands," said the two eunuchs.
"You know Mohammed Ali, the new boulouk bashi?"
"Yes, excellency, we know him."
"Let no one dare do him a bodily injury. Look down humbly when you
pass him, and, if he insults you with word or look, step
nevertheless respectfully aside. Let none of you dare to touch him
to injure a hair of his head, or to seek his life with poison, the
dagger, or any other weapon. Let the life of Mohammed Ali, the new
boulouk bashi, be sacred to you all. Have you heard?"
"We have heard, mighty master."
With an impatient gesture he dismissed them, and he continued to
walk to and fro in his room long after they had gone out. His brow
is dark, evil thoughts fill his breast.
"I have sworn the triple oath, and I must keep it. I no longer
threaten him personally. Woe to him if my suspicion proves true, and
Masa has found an asylum and protection with him! I will keep my
word! No hair of Mohammed's head shall be injured, but I will punish
him through her; for truly, if he loves her, such punishment will be
harder than any thing I could do to him personally. The eunuchs say
they are on her track, and it must be so, or they would not dare to
say it. And these bloodhounds, being once on the track, are sure to
catch their prey!"
The eunuchs had faithfully obeyed their master's command, and hardly
had an hour elapsed when all Praousta knew that Cousrouf Pacha was
on the point of taking his departure from the peninsula, to return
no more.
They were also informed that a ship had come to convey him back to
Stamboul, where the grand-sultan was to recompense him for his long
exile with power, magnificence, and honors. The matter was much
discussed, and they whisperingly confessed to each other that they
would be well pleased to know that the proud man, who was the cause
of so much unhappiness, had taken his departure.
Was it not on his account that the double tax had been imposed on
the people? Had not the extra expenditure been incurred on his
account? True, the tschorbadji had attempted to deny this, but the
additional expense was nevertheless clearly owing to the pacha's
presence in Cavalla. Moreover, the sad story of the unhappy Masa,
who had chosen to die rather than become a slave, was now known.
Yes, she had taken her own life--of that, no one now entertained a
doubt. She had assuredly thrown herself from the cliffs into the
sea. Some boys, who were engaged at night in setting out nets, had
seen a white figure alone on the Ear of Bucephalus.
That white figure was certainly Masa. She had thrown herself into
the sea in order that she, the free daughter of the sheik, might not
be compelled to become a slave and enter the harem of the stranger.
They had sought for the body of the poor girl on the shore and among
the cliffs. The sea had, however, been stormy throughout the entire
day, and the surging waves must have borne her away into the depths,
where she had become a welcome prey to the greedy shark. Nowhere a
trace of her; she is surely dead.
The complaints and lamentations of the sheik are also silenced--he
reclines motionless on his cushions. Grief and anxiety have made him
helpless, and chained him to his couch. He suffers in silence, and
his friends hope that death will soon release him from his misery.
And this overbearing stranger, Cousrouf Pacha, is to blame for all
this!
He gave himself the appearance of graciously making the fishermen a
present of the money to pay the double tax. But he had deceived
them. Oh, had they but known that Masa had sold herself for this
money, they never would have accepted it! They therefore hate this
haughty stranger, and are glad that he is about to leave their coast
forever.
The ship still lies quietly at anchor, her streamers flutter gayly
in the air, her sides are hung with bright-colored carpets, and
garlands of flowers are entwined with her rigging. The ship presents
a brilliant spectacle, and it may well be that the pacha is to
embark this very evening. But no! Night sinks down, and all remains
dark on board the ship, which casts a huge shadow across the waves.
No, Cousrouf Pacha will certainly not embark this evening. The night
is dark, and all is still in Praousta and on the sea-shore.
And who would care to be up and abroad at this late hour! Whoever
has a hut and a bed, remains at home and does not go out into the
night. No, no one is abroad.
But is not that the sound of footsteps that now breaks in upon the
stillness of the night?
A dark shadow is gliding along among the cliffs on the shore. Who
can say that it is a human being! No star sheds its light on his
path--the moon is obscured behind dark clouds. It is perhaps an
eagle that has been cast down by the storm, and is now wearily
winging its flight across the cliffs. Who can say that it is a man
that is gliding among the cliffs? No one sees him; no one can betray
him. The shadow now stands still for a moment, and for a single
moment the moon breaks forth from behind the dark clouds. It sees
the figure, it sees the man who stands there on a rock, his large,
luminous eyes gazing anxiously, suspiciously about him, as though he
feared betrayal.
The kindly moon has permitted him to take a look at the landscape
round about him, and to assure him there is no one in the vicinity
to betray him. All is at rest, he alone is awake and abroad. The
moon has done enough; it glides behind a dark cloud and conceals
itself again.
The waves murmur at the feet of him who has been standing there
listening, and he now glides down from the cliff to the opening in
the rock. He creeps in at this opening, and on through the narrow
passage to the cave, until he can stand upright. He now utters a
cry, and his cry is answered in the distance. He stands still and
leans against the wall of the cave, overwhelmed either with anxiety
or happiness. It is with happiness, for he will find her: she has
answered him.
CHAPTER XII
THE PARADISE UNDER THE EARTH.
They rest heart to heart for a moment, and then Mohammed sinks down
on his knees, and kisses the hem of her dress and her little feet,
and she bows down to him and whispers in his ear words which he
hardly understands, and yet each of them resounds in his soul like
heavenly music.
"O these little feet! They were not created to come in contact with
the earth, and to be wounded by thorns. You should tread on flowers
only, and flutter from rose to rose as the butterfly from flower to
flower. Alas, and yet your home is now a dark cave! Masa, it
tortures me to see you here, under the earth and in darkness."
"Is it then dark here?" asked she, in her sweet voice. "I thought we
had the light of the stars here! Yes, look there, I am right; look
there!" She raised her arm and pointed upward to the opening in the
roof of the cave through which the heavens looked down. "See,
Mohammed, there are the stars, there are the heavens. Let us seat
ourselves on this beautiful spot."
"You are right, Masa. There is starlight in this cave, although
clouds obscure the heavens. Yes, here in our paradise we are
elevated above all earthly care; here is our heaven, and you are the
revelation of Allah. O Masa, let me sink down before you in
adoration, kiss the hem of your garment, and entreat your
forgiveness!"
"My forgiveness?" said she, nestling her little head on his breast,
as they sat side by side on the cushions brought here by Mohammed's
care, and covered with Persian carpets. "My forgiveness, and for
what?
"Because I thought ill of you, Masa; because, while I lay in anguish
up yonder on the rock the other day, I accused you in my senseless
anger, and cursed my love for you. I thought you were a woman like
all other women, and yet you are beautiful and fair and pure, like a
houri of paradise. I wished to tear you from my heart as we tear
weeds from a flower-garden, and my heart was to be henceforth
accessible only to ambition and glory; and now I know that all this
is vain and empty. Mohammed no longer has aspirations after glory
and renown; Mohammed no longer knows that wreaths of fame are twined
and that laurels bloom without in the world; Mohammed only knows
that this is paradise, and that heaven's fairest flower blooms here
at his side. I feel your breath, my flower, I inhale fragrance from
your lips, and see the starlight in your eyes, though none shines in
upon us from the dark world without. I am with you, and you with me.
Oh, let me rest at your side, and forget the world, and may it
forget us too!"
"I do not understand your words," murmured she. "You are wise and
learned, and I am only a poor girl, who has no words to express her
thoughts, and hardly thoughts for that which she feels. I do know,
however, that I am in paradise, and Allah forbid that my feet should
bear me out into the world again! Oh, I never wish to see it again,
Mohammed. And beautiful it would be, it seems to me, to slumber here
in sweet tranquillity, never to awake again."
"Oh, it were heavenly, my sweet dove," murmured he, pressing her to
his heart, "to fall into a sweet slumber here, and to journey hence,
heavenward, to awaken in paradise. I would we had nothing more to do
with the world; yet, swear to me, Masa, that when the world holds us
in its embrace again, you will love me eternally--say eternally!"
"What does eternally mean?" asked she, softly. "I do not know what
eternally means. All life is a single day. At sunrise this morning I
felt that I loved you, and now do you suppose that Masa is so
forgetful a child that she cannot preserve what she feels in her
heart for a single day until the sun sets in the evening?"
"Yes, Masa, you are right!" exclaimed Mohammed, in tones of
enthusiasm. "Life is as a single day. When the sun sets, night
comes, and we sink down and dream, and in our dream we are conscious
only of the love of the blissful day. Yes, life is but a day, and
may this day end blissfully for us as it began! It is dark around
us, and I cannot see you. But look, Allah is kind; he sends us his
light. The moon has broken forth from behind the clouds, and it
shines into our grotto and illumines your fair face. The moon and
the stars love you, Masa; yet they shall not tear you from me. No,
Masa must remain with me, that my life may not end in darkness and
misery, that I may be happy. O good moon, messenger of the prophet,
with your brilliancy you light up the countenance of my houri.
Journey on in your course, good moon, and tell the houris and the
angels above that one of their sisters has remained here in the
paradise grotto, and that this houri is mine; mine--in the name of
Heaven."
He pressed her to his heart and laid his head in her lap. Both were
silent.
Suddenly a loud report resounded through the stillness of the night.
Mohammed released himself from her arms, and sprang in terror to his
feet.
"That was the report of a pistol-shot. Alas! it awakens me from my
dreams. All bliss is at an end, the earth is again here, and calls
me from paradise."
"You will leave me, Mohammed!" cried she, rising from her cushion.
"Mohammed, you intend to leave me tonight?"
"O Masa, I must! Do not tremble, my white dove; all our troubles and
anxieties will soon be at an end. That report was the signal that
Cousrouf Pacha is preparing to depart."
"Is it then really true?" asked Masa, her countenance beaming with
delight. "The pacha takes his departure and restores me to freedom!"
"It is true," said Mohammed. "He was to have embarked yesterday
evening, and who knows but that when the sun rises the ship will
long since have sailed out of the harbor. Yet we must be cautious.
It might be only a pretence, to lull us into false security. It is
for this reason, Masa, that I dare not pass the night here. His
spies, who follow and observe me everywhere, might announce to him
that Mohammed Ali had again passed the night elsewhere than in his
house. Let us be cautious while misfortune with its black pinions
still hovers over us. Afterward the sun will shine for us. Consider
this, Masa, and I will conduct you out into life again as soon as he
shall have left the harbor. The whole earth shall then be our
paradise. Let us, therefore, wait and be patient."
She stood there thoughtfully; she, too, was awakened from her dream,
and life with its cares and anxieties had laid its hold on her.
"How is my father? " asked she, anxiously. "O Mohammed, I have
forgotten him and his sufferings since you have been with me. You
are silent. He is dead. Oh, grief for his daughter has killed my
good father! "
"No, Masa! he is not dead, but he is ill. I do not deny it, grief
has gnawed at his heart. Therefore, let us hope that our happiness
will restore him to health. And to-morrow he will behold our
happiness when I bring you to him, for you will be free, Masa. as
soon as the ship has sailed."
"I shall never be free," she cried out, aloud. "He has purchased me,
and I shall remain his property. O Mohammed, my soul shudders, for I
am forsworn before Allah. By Allah and the spirit of my mother have
I sworn that I would return and restore to him his property. I am
forsworn, and therefore, Mohammed, when you leave me, the ghins come
and flutter about me, pursuing me everywhere and whispering in my
ear: 'You are lost and damned, for you have forsworn yourself by the
spirit of your mother.' And then I fall on my knees and pray to the
welis to guard and protect me in my terror and anxiety. O Mohammed,
when you are here I am in paradise; but when you are away, I feel
myself in hell! Therefore, remain with me. Do not leave me here in
the dark night. See, the stars are all hidden, and the moon is
covered with clouds. Oh, I was wrong when I said there was no night.
When you are with me, the sun shines, though it be night without.
But when you are not with me, it is dark night, even though the sun
be shining without. Do not leave me alone, remain with your Masa, my
Mohammed; stay, stay, at least to-night."
Can he resist such sweet entreaty? Can he tear himself from the fair
arms that are entwined about him and draw him back, and rush out
into the night? Can he speak of prudence and worldly wisdom, while
she whispers such words to him in her sweet voice?
Let come what will in the world without, let all be over-whelmed in
ruin, love is here, paradise is open, and you, Masa, are its angel-
occupant. Let the world pass away; let the firm rocks be shattered;
let the sea swallow all and leave but a desert of water about us, I
am content, Masa, to embark with you in a little boat, you and I
alone, to ride over the waves and listen to the melodies which the
naiads sing to us from the deep, and to what the voice of the wind
proclaims. O my houri, alone with you in the boat, what care I for
the world, for magnificence and renown? Let others seek them, they
are welcome. And though Death with his gloomy visage stood at the
entrance of this grotto ready to destroy me, what care I? And though
your father die and men bury him, what care we? We live and we
love."
He pressed her passionately to his heart. But now it was she who
drew him back to the world, to reality.
"No, Mohammed, my father must not die. Go to him, step to his
bedside and say to him: 'Pray and wait. When the gloomy stranger who
has purchased your Masa and made her his property shall have
embarked in his ship and sailed, your daughter will return to you in
love and happiness. Wait, father. Do not join my dear mother; wait
for your Masa.' Speak to him thus, and I know he will live to see
his Masa, again. No, I am not afraid. The ghins will not enter if
Masa kneels at the entrance and prays to the prophet who told men
that they were to love one another, and that love alone could secure
happiness. No, I am not afraid. And see, Mohammed, day is breaking;
the sun will soon shine in upon me, and then Masa will sing the song
taught her by Djumeila that speaks of love and stars. I am no longer
afraid, Mohammed, for I am your beloved, and the girl whom a hero
has chosen for his own; how could she lack courage?"
For the second time a loud report now resounded throughout the cave.
"I know what that means," said Mohammed, anxiously. "It is Osman
warning me to be on my guard. 'I will give you a signal when danger
threatens,' whispered he, in my ear, when we parted, 'that you may
know that your friend is watching over you in the night also.' Yes,
I must go. But listen, Masa: when I am gone, replace the stone I
showed you yesterday, before the opening; and then go back into the
cave to the point where the passage turns, where no one can see the
entrance to the second cave. Remain there, and await the return of
him you love."
"I will do so, Mohammed. When you have gone, I will push the stone
before the entrance, and go back into the second cave, where I will
fall on my knees and pray to Allah and his prophet until my beloved
returns."
At this moment a third report resounded through the cave.
"Danger threatens--Masa, I must away. We will soon be free; farewell
until then, farewell! Ah! how pale you have suddenly become! Let me
look at you once more, my Masa!"
He raises her in his arms and carries her to the opening, and the
moon is gracious and illumines her countenance, but it also makes it
deathly pale.
"O Masa, my white dove, how pale you are! Yet your eyes are bright--
let me kiss them. And with this kiss I swear I will love you
eternally! And now kiss me, too, and let this kiss be the vow of
your eternal love for me!"
She kissed him passionately. "I love you, Mohammed, and you alone
will I love on earth!"
He looks at her tenderly, and shudders, for her countenance is still
deathly pale.
"I can no longer look upon your dear face, I cannot!" he cries, in
tones of anguish. "I have a dread foreboding that I see you for the
last time. Farewell, Masa, farewell! Pray for me, and for yourself,
and for our love. Farewell, sweet being, my white dove, farewell!"
He folds her to his heart once more, and then away, away out into
the night. He still hears behind him the tones of the sweet voice
crying, "Farewell, farewell!"
Then all is still, and he rushes on through the darkness toward the
stairway in the rock.
BOOK III.
THE MAMELUKES
CHAPTER I
REVENGE.
The night was mild and warm; the sea rested in silent majesty like a
slumbering lion, and the wind seemed to hold its breath in order
that his repose might not be disturbed. To be in the open air on
such a night was good for the weak breast of an invalid, and Osman's
father was therefore not surprised when his son expressed a desire
to pass the night in the garden pavilion, in preference to remaining
in the close apartments of the palace. He would be protected from
wind and rain by the roof of the pavilion, and from all other
sources of danger the two slaves that had been his faithful and
devoted servants from his earliest youth would guard him. The two
servants carried his cushions down into the garden, and Osman now
lay there, wrapped in his silken coverlet; the two slaves were
crouched down at his side. They were still there when the
tschorbadji, before retiring for the night, came down to see his son
once more and bid him good-night; and there they remained until all
the lights were extinguished in the apartments of the tschorbadji as
well as in those of the pacha. Then, when all had become still, one
of them stooped down and addressed his master in low tones; after
they had carried on a short, whispered conversation the slave arose
and glided noiselessly away toward the garden-wall, which formed no
obstacle to his progress--as the faithful servant could climb like a
cat--and he was soon on the other side.
Osman remained on his couch, conversing in low tones with the other
servant. Both were attentively observing the pacha's harem, and it
surprised them to see that lights were being carried to and fro in
the lower apartments at so late an hour.
"Something extraordinary is surely taking place there," murmured
Osman, "and we must be on our guard, and listen to the slightest
noise."
Hours passed, and the same activity was still being displayed in the
harem; and from time to time the attentive servant perceived shadows
flitting up and down the avenue that led to the harem.
Footsteps are now heard approaching. It is the slave Nadeg, and he
comes swiftly to his master's couch, kneels down and speaks to him
for some time in low, earnest tones. Osman rises from his cushions.
"The time has come, we must warn him, we must help him! Be quick,
both of you!--Jabad, hasten to the summit of the rock. Here, take
the pistol and give the signal agreed upon, three shots fired at
short intervals.--But you, Nadeg, hasten down to the mouth of the
cave again, and when, aroused by my shots, my friend comes out, call
him, tell him I am awaiting him, and bring him to me at once. Oh, I
am anxious on his account: be quick, that you may get there in
time!"
The two walk stealthily and rapidly down the garden-path. Osman
listens to their retreating footsteps, and, as they die away in the
distance, he draws a breath of relief. They are good, zealous
servants, and will obey his instructions faithfully. He listens
again eagerly, and again looks over toward the harem, where be sees
the lights still flitting about and shadows passing the windows.
Osman's heart tells him that something unusual, something that bodes
no good to his friend, is going on there, and his love gives
strength to his poor, weak body. He rises from his cushions; his
limbs are stiff, and his breast pains him, but he is heedless of
this. Cautiously he descends the steps into the garden, and walks
noiselessly down the pathway. He knows that a high hedge separates
the garden of the harem from the rest of the park at the end of this
path. Hitherto all have respected this boundary, and no one has
dared to cross it; may the good spirits pardon the young man for
venturing to do so now! He is in the garden of the harem. It is
certainly dangerous to enter it, and, if the eunuchs should discover
him there, they would seize him. But, fortunately, he is the
tschorbadji's son, and that will protect him. He is on his father's
property. He walks onward, no longer painfully; he no longer feels
that his breast hurts him; he is only thinking of his friend; he can
perhaps discover something for him, perhaps something for him. He
now stands still and listens. In the distance he hears the reports
of the pistol.
"Ah, Mohammed is warned! He has been aroused from his sweet repose,
and will come to me."
But he must know what all this disturbance and running about means.
Osman has approached close to the harem, and stands at the iron gate
that opens into the court-yard. He stands there for a moment and
listens, and then crosses the court-yard and looks toward the door
in the wall that opens into the street. All is still in the house,
as in the yard; but now he hears a noise at the door that opens into
the vestibule of the building. It is opened, and two dark figures
appear, and descend the steps into the yard. They are carrying
something; it looks like a cot; it is a cot covered with white
sheets, but it is empty. They carry it across the yard, and out into
the street.
He hears them lock the door from the outside; hears the murmuring of
voices, and then all is again quiet. What was the cot intended for?
What could it all mean?
He listens, and looks around anxiously; but all is still. Perhaps
his care and anxiety have been groundless; perhaps these are only
things the servants are carrying to the ship to prepare for
Cousrouf's departure on the morrow.
He again listens awhile, and then returns through the garden to the
pavilion. Wearily he throws himself on his cushions, and lies there,
for a moment, with closed eyes.
Now he hears footsteps approaching. Who can it be? he asks in a low
voice, and the two servants emerge from the darkness, come to his
side, and whisper something in his ear. Osman draws a breath of
relief.
"Allah be praised, he is coming, he is saved!"
Yes, other footsteps are now rapidly approaching, and, in a moment,
Mohammed is at his friend's side.
"You called me, my friend, and here I am! What has happened?"
"I do not know, Mohammed. It seems to be nothing, and yet my heart
was filled with care and anxiety on your account, and I could not
resist the inclination to call you. Listen: Nadeg was among the
cliffs not far from the entrance of your cave, to which you came
late at night. He was standing guard there, but be was not alone,"
"He was not alone? What does that mean?" asked Mohammed, in dismay.
"Not alone; for in the vicinity, hidden in the shadow of a rock,
stood two dark figures, and he heard them whispering and telling
each other that you were there, and that they were now sure of their
prey. When Nadeg had heard this, he returned hastily to me, and told
me of it. I then sent both servants out, the one to stand guard near
the cave, the other to the summit of the rock to fire the pistol,
and give the warning signal. Nadeg found the two men still near the
cave, lying in wait like panthers, and he saw that they were
gradually creeping nearer and nearer to the cave. In the meanwhile,
I had gone into the harem-garden, where I saw two eunuchs carry a
cot out into the street. Now you know all, and now it seems to me
that all is well. I was anxious on your account, fearing these men,
who were lying in wait, might attack and kill you. This was why I
sent my servants out. But now I am happy, for you are safe, and with
me. I beg you to stay with me until to-morrow; stay here, that every
one may know where you have passed the night. Do not refuse me. This
is the last night of danger and anxiety. Cousrouf departs to-morrow,
and then you will be safe."
"No, Osman, no, it is impossible!" said Mohammed, who could not
himself account for the anxiety that made his heart throb so wildly.
"I thank you for your warning, and beg you to let me have your
pistol. Is it loaded?"
"Yes," said Nadeg. "I loaded it again after firing."
"Yes, give it to him!--If you will not remain, Mohammed, take the
weapon, and, if I hear a shot, I shall know you are attacked and in
danger; then I will wake my father, and beg him to send the soldiers
to your assistance. But stay with me yet awhile, my friend!"
"No, Osman, I can remain no longer. I must be off! My heart is
filled with a sense of impending evil, with gloomy forebodings."
"Then go, Mohammed, and may Allah bless and protect you! Oh, that
this fearful night were at an end!"
Mohammed hastens away down the garden path, and soon disappears in
the darkness.
"Stay with me, you good, faithful servants. Oh, how anxious I am,
how wildly my heart beats! Yet I do not fear for myself, but for my
dear friend Mohammed. Pray to Allah for grace and mercy! Yes, let us
all pray to Allah!"
Mohammed rushes on through the night, down the stone stairway. He
flies with the speed of an arrow from rock to rock. Now he is down
by the cave. He looks behind him once more. There is nothing to be
seen, nowhere a human figure. Nothing! Osman must have been
mistaken; no one observed him, no one was there! He creeps through
the fissure in the cliff, to the inner grotto to the place where the
passage becomes narrow, and where Masa was to have rolled the stone
before the opening. He feels for this stone to push it back. But
what does this mean? The stone is no longer there, the cave is open!
He recoils for a moment with terror. He then resolutely creeps on
through the opening. Masa must have forgotten it, that is all! He
calls her--no answer.
But he had told her to retire into the second grotto, and await him
there. There she will be, there she must be.
"Masa, where are you? Masa, my white dove, Masa!"
All is still; no answer comes, no voice replies in tender greeting
to his anxious and repeated call.
"Masa! where are you, Masa?"
The silence is profound. He utters a cry that resounds fearfully
through the cave. He gropes about in the darkness. Then he turns
again, and cries out loudly, but all is still as before. He goes
back to the passage, and into the first grotto, the one with the
large opening in the roof, to the place where the sky can be seen.
The clouds have disappeared, and the moon sheds its soft light into
the cave.
"Masa, are you asleep?" he cries, as he kneels down beside the
cushions.
But they are empty, and things are thrown about in disorder in the
grotto. The moonlight shines brightly in the cave, and shows that a
terrible struggle has taken place here. The carpets and cushions are
thrown together confusedly; fragments of broken cups and saucers
strew the ground, and every thing is overturned. At last he must
recognize the fact. Masa is gone, he has been robbed of his Masa.
He sinks down upon the earth and cries in loud, heartrending tones:
"Masa is gone; the slave-dealer has recovered his slave. Oh, horror,
Masa is gone!" He springs to his feet, and rushes toward the
entrance; then he stands still again, and cries in piercing tones
that make the rocks reverberate: "Masa, where are you?" No answer.
It was thus that her father had cried out a few days before: "Masa,
where are you?"
Punishment has overtaken the undutiful daughter, and him who had
harbored her.
"Masa, where are you?" For the second time, the agonized voice of
love resounded through the cave. Masa is gone.
Ah, where can she be? All is still. A struggle has taken place here.
Hired assassins, perhaps robbers, have broken into this paradise
here beneath the earth that he considered so secure. But nothing is
secure from man; cruel men have broken into his sanctuary and
desecrated his paradise.
He no longer groans and laments. He raises his clinched fists, and
swears by Allah that be will be revenged on the robbers and
murderers of his Masa. Suddenly he is seized from behind, two arms
encircle him like iron rings, and bind his arms to his side. Another
hand seizes the pistol be carries in his girdle, and draws his sword
from his scabbard. Mohammed opens his lips to cry out, but a hand is
laid on them, and he is incapable of uttering a single tone.
"It would be vain to cry out, Mohammed Ali, young boulouk bashi. No
one can hear you but we, and we are indifferent to your cries.--Be
quick, Aga, put the gag in his mouth and bind the cloth over it. Let
us finish our work! Day is breaking, and it must be done quickly!
Our master's orders here to do it quickly."
Mohammed is securely bound and motionless. He is now a mere package
borne along by the eunuchs, but a package that thinks, feels, and
suffers. His eyes are wide open, and up at his enemies with a
fearful expression. He knows he cannot pierce them through with his
eyes, for they are not daggers, and his hands are bound. But he
swears that he will have vengeance on his enemies, either above,
before Allah's throne, or here on earth already, if he is permitted
to live. He has no fear for himself, for his own life. For that he
cares not. He cares only for Masa, he thinks only of her, and his
roving glance seeks her anxiously.
He is being borne to the sea-shore. Do they intend to cast into the
waves? Let it be so. Death is sweet, divine, when one has lost all
on earth. And he feels that all, that his Masa, is lost.
If she is lost to him, what further need of the stars in heaven, of
the moonlight, of the bright sunshine? Then all is darkness and
desolation. Will they kill him? Will they cast him into the sea?
The waves will murmuringly receive him, and consign him to their
depths. There he will rest tranquilly. They have now reached the
beach, and the eunuchs lay him down on the sand; not carelessly as a
package is thrown down, but cautiously and gently.
"Remember, Aga," murmured one to the other, "that we have orders not
to injure a hair of his head, or to cause him slightest pain. We
will lay him down here, here he can rest easily, and can raise his
head and see. The eyes of the young boulouk bashi, accustomed as
they are to the dark, will easily be able to detect who it is that
approaches from over there." And the eunuch raised his hand and
pointed toward the path that led to Cavalla.
Yes, his eyes are accustomed to the dark, and he does see figures
advancing from that direction. Not one or two, but a crowd of
figures are approaching, and in their midst he sees something white,
that is being borne along by others.
For a moment his heart stands still with horror, and then beats
again with redoubled violence.
The procession comes nearer and nearer. Now he hears a low, wailing
voice. It is she, he recognizes Masa's voice. And alas! he can utter
no tone, he cannot rise and fly to her assistance. His mouth is
gagged, his hands and feet are securely bound. There he lies
perfectly helpless; he can do nothing but swear vengeance to
himself. Oh, he cannot utter a single word to tell that he is there,
and that he shares her grief and anguish.
They have now come close to him. Mohammed sees them deposit a cot on
the ground. He sees a white veiled figure lying motionless on this
cot. He also sees and recognizes the haughty man who now comes to
the side of the cot. It is Cousrouf Pacha, his hated and now dreaded
enemy. Alas! he is now in his power. The young lion lies bound at
the panther's feet; he is helpless and must submit to all.
Cousrouf commands the eunuchs, who had stood still awaiting his
orders, to retire after first placing the cot a little nearer to the
sea.
They noiselessly do as directed, and then retire. Now they are
alone--Cousrouf Pacha and the two bound, helpless creatures.
A few rosy little clouds have appeared in the east, it is growing
lighter, and the dark mantle of night is being lifted. The sea is
beginning to swell with the breath of morning, and to caress the
beach, and murmur at the feet of the fettered man. He looks neither
at the sea beneath, nor at the heavens above. He gazes up with
flaming eyes at him who stands composedly by his side, looking down
upon him contemptuously.
"Mohammed, you have a friend who loves you well, and this friend was
too shrewd for me. I had sworn with the triple oath that I would
grant the request he should ask of me. He asked for your life and
your safety."
A low groan escaped the breast of the bound man. Though be could not
denounce his enemy in words, he could nevertheless give expression
to the curse that burned in his heart in the proud, fierce glance of
his eye. But he must bear his enemy's scornful words and smiles in
silence.
"I gave my word that you should suffer no bodily injury, and I will
keep it. But you shall see how Cousrouf Pacha punishes where no oath
binds him, and how he avenges himself on those who dare to defy him
and his authority. Yes, you shall see, and shall carry with you
throughout life the remembrance of what you have seen. Thus Cousrouf
avenges himself on you. Now look and hear. Incline your head a
little, and look down at that cot on which the white figure lies.
Oh, why is the sun so cruel as to begin to shed its light around
them, and illumine this figure, that the poor bound man may see it
distinctly!
It is she, it is Masa! So near and yet so far, so widely, eternally
separated from him. No longer can they grasp hands or exchange vows
of undying love. A grave lies between, a fearful, impassable
barrier. That they both know. For they know the law--the law of the
land that permits the master to punish the slave he has purchased.
Yes, to punish her according to the law if he finds her unfaithful.
She is tied up in a sack and cast into the sea, that no mound may
designate the spot where a poor traitoress has found her place of
burial; that she may disappear from the world untalked of and
unnoticed.
Cousrouf stands haughtily erect beside the cot on which the figure
lies.
"Masa, daughter of the Sheik of Praousta, confess that you are
rightfully and according to the law my slave. I paid you the
purchase-money, and you accepted it. I was gracious, and granted
your request that you might pass the day with your father. I was a
fool, and trusted to human faith. Because you swore by the spirit of
your mother and by Allah, and all you held sacred, that you would
return to me in the evening. as it beseemed a purchased slave, to my
harem, where the eunuchs awaited you. I granted you this delay out
of kindness. You mocked at my mercy and scorned my kindness. You
broke your oath. And you fled from your master with this boy in
shameless infidelity."
He paused and looked down at the white figure, as if expecting an
answer, although he knew that Masa, too, had been gagged in order
that no cry for help might escape her pale lips. They are both
bound. The same fate has overtaken both, and they must bear it in
silence. Their fearful anguish can find no utterance.
"Masa, I repeat what I said before. Repent and attempt to repair the
wrong you have done; show your master that you will belong to him in
love; show this, as he requires it of you. Go with me voluntarily to
the sheik, your father, tomorrow, and say to him: 'Cousrouf Pacha
has purchased me, and I will follow him out into the world, of my
own free will and love.' Say this to the boy, too, who lies there;
tell him that henceforth you will be your master's faithful slave,
and will serve him in love and joyousness. Do this, Masa, and I will
pardon you for the sake of your youth and beauty, and because my
heart prompts me to do so. Raise your hand three times in token of
your assent, and, I repeat, I will forgive you. Yet your repentance
must be public. I demand this in justice to myself, and on account
of that proud boy, that he may receive his punishment through you.
Now, answer! Give the sign!"
He pauses and waits. Nothing breaks in upon the stillness but the
murmuring of the waves upon the shore.
The two unhappy creatures cannot pour out their anguish in each
other's ears, or exchange their vows of undying love. And yet for a
moment they are blessed, for their hearts understand each other, and
their souls are filled for an instant with ineffable love and
happiness and anguish.
Mohammed knows that Masa refuses what the haughty man requires of
her. Mohammed knows that Masa prefers death to life at the side of
another man, and he feels some consolation in his heart at the
thought that she is there, and that her death is but the
manifestation of the immortality of her love.
He is the witness of her death and of her fidelity, and this soothes
his anguish. Ah! it is sweet to die under the glance of love,
heavenly and blissful to sink into the grave with gaze fixed on the
countenance of the beloved one, heart communing with heart, though
lips can find no utterance. It is a grand and elevating sight to him
who loves to behold so faithful and heroic a death. After long years
have elapsed, Mohammed will still think of this hour when Masa stood
firm and immovable in her vows, nobly and disdainfully rejecting
life.
Blessed be the love that is strong even unto death! Blessed be death
when such a spirit hovers over and consecrates it.
A long pause. And Cousrouf Pacha speaks again in harder and more
imperious tones than before:
"Raise your hand, Masa, and give the sign I require."
Masa remains motionless. Death awaits her; she knows this, and is
glad. Oh, that her face were not veiled! Mohammed might then read
her love in her eyes--in these stars fallen from heaven, as he had
called them a few short hours before.
"Masa, give the sign; this is your last opportunity."
She does not move.
"Then I curse you, and you die! You have pronounced judgment on
yourself!--Here, ye slaves!"
They flutter to his side like the ravens of the night, greedily
seeking their prey.
"Take hold of her and tie her up in the sack."
Mohammed's hands and feet are bound, and he cannot rise, but he can
lift his head and gaze at the dread deed that is being done, and he
does so. Yes, he sees his white dove disappear in the sack in the
black grave that is closed over her.
"Thus are unfaithful slaves punished; and thus the law allows and
commands. Tie the mouth of the sack securely. Is it done? Is the
boat ready?"
They murmur that all is in readiness.
"Good! Row her out on the water. Yet not too far, in order that this
boy may see what takes place."
He must bear it, and look on while the black ravens drag his white
dove down to the shore, and cast the living burden into the boat.
They row with rapid strokes from the shore, but not far out, for
they know the sea is deep at this place, and that it greedily
swallows all that is confided to it. To the rope with which the
mouth of the sack is tied up they have secured two heavy iron balls,
that it may sink rapidly into the deep. They stop.
"Take in the oars! Now lift the sack; cast it into the sea!"
The waves receive their prey, and the water foams and eddies for a
moment over the place where it went down. All is still again. The
boat is turned and rowed back to the shore.
Cousrouf Pacha has stood there, composedly gazing at this fearful,
horrible burial. Now he steps to the side of the poor, bound man,
and takes leave of him in cruel, mocking words.
Does he hear them? His widely-opened eyes stare out fixedly upon the
waters. He is motionless, no quivering muscle indicates that he has
understood the pacha's words of triumph and mockery. Cousrouf turns
and beckons to the slaves.
"Leave him lying there! He will be found in the morning, for he will
be looked for. Nothing has been done to him, and I have kept my
word. Now let us go; the ship is ready to sail, is it not?"
"Yes, gracious master, all is in readiness," replied the eunuchs.
He turns and walks off toward Cavalla. An hour later, Cousrouf Pacha
leaves the governor's house, and leaves it to return no more.
His harem had been conveyed to the ship before the morning dawned;
and all his treasure and baggage had been packed, and taken on board
the day before. All is in readiness to weigh the anchor and sail as
soon as the pacha shall have come on board.
Cousrouf Pacha walks proudly down toward the harbor, at his side the
governor, who insists on accompanying his honored guest to the
shore. The servants in gold-embroidered liveries, and the slaves,
follow his excellency.
And, gayly smiling, Cousrouf chats with the governor all the way
down to the shore, grasps his hand in parting, and thanks him for
his hospitality. He then enters the boat covered with costly carpets
that is to convey him to the ship.
The tschorbadji stands on the shore gazing after him, vainly
endeavoring to display a sorrowful, countenance, and repress all
evidence of gladness that fills his heart at the thought that, after
long years, the haughty pacha, who entered his house as master, has
at last departed. Ah, it will be delightful to be able to walk in
the park and garden, with his Osman, without the fear of meeting his
proud guest.
Hastily the tschorbadji returns to Cavalla, to his son who is still
reclining in the garden house, and relates that Cousrouf has
departed, and that he has sent his dear Osman the kindest greetings,
and the best wishes for his welfare.
Osman listens with an air of indifference and anxiety, and his
father regards him with dismay.
"Osman, what is the matter, what is it that grieves you?"
"Father, I must say it. Something fearful has taken place this
night!"
"What can have happened, Osman? Tranquillize yourself! You are
trembling! What has occurred?"
"Father; I do not know as yet; I have been listening for the shot
Mohammed was to fire. I have not yet heard it, and yet I feel that
some misfortune has happened to him, and that something dreadful has
taken place."
"But what can have happened to Mohammed?"
"I cannot speak of it now, and I am a poor, unhappy being whose feet
are too weak to bear him. I pray you go down to Praousta yourself.
Oh, go to the cliffs, father, go to the caves and openings in the
rock! Take the servants with you! I conjure you, father, do not
delay a moment!"
He could speak no further, and the tschorbadji saw, with dismay,
that his son's face was deathly pale.
"Be courageous, my Osman! It shall be as you say. I will call the
servants. See, I am already going!"
He hastily left the palace with his servants. All is still quiet in
Praousta--the walk among the cliffs, and down to the shore. Then
suddenly--
"What is that on the beach? O Allah, the merciful! Is that not a
dead body? Is it not Mohammed? Bound and gagged! He does not move!
Quick, cut the ropes, take the gag out of his mouth!"
This is speedily done, but still Mohammed does not move.
"Is he dead? There are no wounds to be seen on his person! No, not
dead, he is only insensible. Bring water, wet his temples, cool his
forehead!"
Allah be praised! He moves, he lives! Yes, he lives, and he bounds
suddenly to his feet, and he gazes around with the expression not of
a man, but of a tiger. He then utters a cry so fearful, so terrible
a cry, that the tschorbadji's heart is filled with anxiety and
compassion.
With outstretched arms, Mohammed walks down to the verge of the sea.
The servants rush after him, and endeavor to hold him back. He
clinches his fists and strikes them, but they grasp him firmly, and
at last succeed in overcoming him.
"Mohammed, compose yourself and be strong!" said the tschorbadji,
clasping his arms about him. "Friend of my son, take pity on me, and
remember that Osman dies if you die."
He shakes his head, but cannot speak. He looks at the sea, the
terrible sea! His eyes stare in horror at the place where Masa sank,
then close, and he falls to the ground insensible. The servants now
raise him in their arms, and carry him to the governor's house.
His countenance deathly pale, Osman stands at the gate awaiting
them. He sees the sad procession approaching. He knows they are
bringing his friend, and, hastening forward to meet them, he
receives the motionless body, hot, glowing tears pouring from his
eyes.
Awakened by the dew of his friend's falling tears, Mohammed opens
his eyes and looks up. His lips part, and murmur softly, "Dead, Masa
is dead!"--nothing more!
The whole history of his anguish lies in the words, "Dead, Masa is
dead!"
CHAPTER II
ALL THINGS PASS AWAY.
Ten years had passed since the painful event that had consigned the
daughter of the sheik, the Flower of Praousta, to so early a grave,
and caused him who had loved her a long and severe illness.
Ten years! To the happy, when he looks back at them, they are but a
few days of sunshine, the contemplation of which delights him, and
the memory of which softens his heart. To the unhappy they are as a
cold, desolate eternity of torment, and he looks back with
reluctance at them, and the misery he has endured, measuring the
days of anguish that are still to come.
Ten years! In Cavalla they had changed nothing. They had only left
their handwriting on the faces of those who had been living ten
years before, and had witnessed those painful events. The faces of
men had changed, but the sea then, as at that time, shone in the
beauty and freshness of eternal youth, and still surged in majesty
along its rock-bound coast, and over the deep, the unknown grave of
the beautiful Masa, the forgotten one.
Yes, the forgotten one!
All things pass away; grief as well as joy is forgotten. The years
roll on over both, like the waves of the deep over the bodies
consigned to its keeping.
All things pass away! Man has only to learn and to wait in patience.
No matter how pain may rend his soul, if he only knows how to wait
in patience, the balm of time will gradually heal his wounds and
soothe his soul. All things pass away!
To be sure there are hopeless and weak natures who refuse to wait
for this soothing balm of time; natures which destroy themselves in
fiery torture, or in their cowardly weakness are destroyed by the
dark genius of despair.
The poor sheik had not been able to bear the loss of his only child,
his Masa. He had died of grief. He had called for his Masa with his
last breath.
No one now speaks of her. The young girls of that time have now
become mothers, and sometimes tell their little ones of the Flower
of Praousta and her death, as of a fairy tale of the olden time.
It has become a fairy-tale, and has been written in verses which the
fisher-boys sing when they go out upon the waves. They have almost
forgotten that only ten years have passed since Masa's death; and
when they gaze at the pale, earnest face of Mohammed Ali as he
passes through the streets of Cavalla in his business occupations,
they scarcely remember that he it is who was the cause of her death.
Does he remember it himself?
All things pass away, grief and joy alike. He has suffered much
since those days, but he has suffered in silence; few know that he
loved Masa, and these few have considerately refrained from touching
the wound that had once bled in his heart, lest it might not yet be
healed.
When found on the sea-shore that morning by the father of his friend
Osman, Mohammed Ali was taken up to the governor's house, where he
was tenderly cared for.
For many days he remained entirely unconscious of all that was going
on around him. He lay there coffined in his grief, as in living
death. They cooled his feverish brow, and poured strengthening
cordials between his lips. The magi cians and sorcerers, as well as
the physicians of Cavalla and the neighboring cities, were summoned
to his assistance by the tschorbadji and his son. But neither
amulets nor talismans, neither medicines nor herbs, could heal the
wounds which did not bleed, or cool the burning pain of his soul.
He lay there motionless, his eyes gazing fixedly at vacancy, and yet
they constantly saw the one fearful yet blissful picture, the Flower
of Praousta, the white dove, as she lay there in the early dawn, her
large eyes fixed on him tenderly ; and saw, too, the fearful, the
never-to-be-forgotten event. As the dark body sank beneath the
waves, a shudder would course through his whole being, and a
scarcely-audible cry escape his lips. The ear of his listening
friend Osman would catch the word that escaped him, and this word
was "Revenge! revenge!"
With time all things pass away. There is a limit to the profoundest
pain, to the profoundest torpor. One day Mohammed raised his hand
and in a low voice called for water.
Consciousness had returned. He now felt the torment that glowed in
his soul. When a man has become conscious of his suffering, there is
a possibility of relief.
The water at least cooled his lips; and the tender, affectionate
words of his friend, and the tears of sympathy that fell upon his
countenance, at last cooled the fire that burned in his soul.
Happy is be who can impart his grief to others, whom Fate does not
compel to confine it within his own bosom, and let it gnaw at his
vitals. Happy is he who can pour out the burden of his sorrow and
suffering in the ear of a friend! That grief of which one can speak
is not mortal.
But there is another kind of grief and suffering more bitter than
that--it is deep, like the grave. Black like the night is the grief
that can find no utterance, that is chained to the heart by a sense
of duty.
Are such the grief and suffering that burden the breast of the pale
man who stands there on the shore gazing out at the sea? Are such
the grief and suffering that sometimes break in upon the solitude
and stillness of the night in low sobs from the lips of the man who,
but ten years ago, was so full of the courage, energy, and
joyousness of youth?
Osman had not nursed his friend alone. A woman had stood at his
side; the beautiful Ada, of whom Osman some times whispered to his
friend that she loved him.
Upon hearing of his grief and illness, Ada, conscious of her love
only, and casting aside all the fetters that bound her, had left her
husband's house and came to the palace of her uncle, with whom she
was a great favorite. With glowing words she told him that she would
never return to the house of her husband, who had long tormented her
with his fierce jealousy, because he well knew that his wife did not
love him, but loved the friend of his relative, young Mohammed Ali.
In the strength and ardor of her love, she had not cared to deny
that this was so, and firmly declared that she would be his alone;
and therefore had she come up to the palace to nurse and wait on him
she loved, in his illness and distress.
The tschorbadji did not oppose her wishes, and the poor, delicate
youth Osman was well pleased to have Ada's assistance in nursing his
friend.
She had been at his bedside constantly, and listened eagerly to the
words that fell from his lips in the delirium of his fever. Ada
would lie on her knees beside him, absorbed in those mysterious
outpourings of the human heart; listening to his descriptions of the
object of his great love, of his Masa, of her fate, and hear his
oaths of vengeance.
After the days of fever, and of the outpourings of anguish, came the
days of exhaustion and of returning consciousness. The struggle
between life and death lasted long, but life was at last victorious.
Mohammed now felt his weakness, and he lay, as in the beginning of
his illness, for many a day, motionless, on his bed, with widely-
opened eyes, staring around him.
But he now saw, and was conscious of what he saw.
He saw his friend Osman, who followed his every movement with tender
glances, and whose countenance shone with delight when Mohammed
smiled on him, and told him with a look that he recognized him, and
knew of his love. He saw, too, the veiled woman, who flitted about
him, reading his every wish in his face, and fulfilling it before he
expressed it. It touched his heart to perceive that there was still
a woman who cared for him, and was anxious on his account. He had
believed himself alone in the wide world, and there were now beside
him two beings that shared his sorrow, and whose hearts beat warmly
for him. This was written in their countenances; this their busy,
anxious movements betrayed.
When he was sufficiently recovered to be spoken to, Osman told him
of Ada's love, of her grief on his account, of her joy in being
permitted to nurse him, and of her having separated herself from the
past, forsaking all else to serve him and him alone.
He made no reply, but closed his eyes, and a low groan escaped his
lips.
Poor Ada! The story of her love reminds him of his own, and for a
moment the old wound bleeds afresh.
Could he be ungrateful? Could he now abandon her who had forsaken
every thing for him when he was in distress, and needed her care?
Could he do this now, when strength had returned to him, now that he
was able to walk in the garden, supported on his friend Osman's arm?
Could he forsake her who walked beside him, her eyes sparkling with
delight at his recovery?
And when the tschorbadji came, now that Mohammed was strong enough
to occupy himself with his future business matters, and spoke to him
seriously, and, with Ada's consent, formally proposed his marriage
with his niece, in order that her reputation might not suffer, and
that she might regain the position she had lost before the world on
his account, could he cowardly decline, and excuse himself with his
own grief? Would it become him to say, "Let the woman who has loved
me live in disgrace!" Could he do this?
No, he felt that it would be cruel in him to act thus; and how could
he be cruel, he who had suffered so much from the inhumanity of
others?
He accepted the tscborbadji's proposal. He went to Ada, who awaited
him, her heart throbbing anxiously, and asked her if she would be
his wife, follow him to his house, and walk with him through life in
sorrow and in joy.
He asked this question in a sad, low voice, and Ada knew what lay
buried in the depths of his heart; but she, nevertheless, accepted
his offer, and consoled herself with the thought: "All things pass
away, and time heals all wounds."
She became his wife, and brought with her a rich dowry.
He had, however, made no inquiries after this; did not care for it;
and did not rejoice when, on the morning after the wedding, the
tschorbadji took his arm and conducted him to one of the largest and
best houses in the main street of Cavalla. He showed him the store
and parlors, and led him up the stone stairway into the apartments
of the harem, that were richly furnished and adorned.
Nor did he smile when, on descending the stairway, Ada met him, and
begged him, in her gentle voice, to accept the house and all it
contained as his property, as a love-offering from her.
He thanked her with many kind and tender words, yet Ada felt that
the wound still burned in his soul, and the sad tone of his voice
did not escape her. The house was handsome, and so was the store.
The advice of the merchant Lion had been taken by Ada, and the
tschorbadji and he kindly assisted in arranging every thing for the
young merchant in a suitable and appropriate manner. Mohammed was
not to deal, like his friend Lion, in all kinds of household
articles. Lion knew the young man better; he knew that such a
business would not suit him, and that his lips would not conform to
the necessity of using complacent words and flattery, in order to
dispose of his wares. The merchant had, therefore, advised Ada and
the tschorbadji to arrange to have the young man embark in a
wholesale business.
The tobacco of Macedonia is celebrated far and wide, and vessels
come there from all quarters of the globe to export this article and
distribute it throughout the world. They had, therefore, made
Mohammed proprietor of a large tobacco warehouse, and he had now
been engaged in this business some ten years, and had become a
wealthy merchant. The people called him a happy man, too, and
perhaps be was, for Mohammed seemed to have true domestic happiness
in his wife and children; he conducted no second wife into his
harem. Ada was his only wife, and the sole mistress of his house.
Yes, he was certainly happy in his family; three sons had been born
to him, and he often went out upon the sea with them, and taught
them, in their boats, to command the waves; he also taught them to
handle the gun, and other manly accomplishments. But he never took
the boys to that part of the shore where the entrance to the cave
lay; and the foot of man has never entered it again! The fissure in
the rocks has disappeared, covered with stones.
No one saw Mohammed go to this spot on the evening be fore his
marriage with Ada. No one saw him, as with the strength of a giant
he rolled huge stones to the opening, and piled them up before the
grotto. Nor did any one see him, before he had done this, enter the
grotto with bowed head and folded arms, as though approaching the
holy mosque. Nor did the ear of man hear the groans and lamentations
that escaped his breast as he lay thereon; the spot upon which the
light of the moon and stars of heaven shone down through the opening
above. There he lay, one entire night, and a whole world of
suffering lay on his soul throughout that night. He wished, during
those fearful hours, to rend from his heart the remembrance of all
the anguish and all the bliss associated with that place in the
past. Did he succeed? Who knows, who can tell?
All things pass away, and time heals all wounds.
Mohammed is a wealthy merchant, the husband of a charming, lovely
woman, and the father of three strong, handsome boys, who look out
boldly and defiantly into the world with their dark eyes, the
picture of their father in earlier days.
How would Sitta Khadra rejoice could she see these boys!
Would she also rejoice if she could see her son gravely and silently
attending to his duties, speaking with the men who come to see him,
of tobacco, of good harvests, of future prospects, and of the
success already achieved in his business?
Of other matters Mohammed never speaks, not even to his friend Lion,
who often comes to see him. When Mohammed needs advice at times in
his affairs, he seeks it of him; he listens smilingly when Lion
tells him of what is going on in the world; and, without letting
Mohammed perceive it, attentively observes him, endeavoring to read,
in his grave, tranquil countenance, whether new feelings are
awakening in his soul, whether the young merchant has really buried
the former ambition of the youth.
But he detects nothing in that tranquil face; ambition sleeps, the
love of glory is dead within him. This is Lion's opinion, and the
opinion of all. But it is not the opinion of Osman, who understands
him best. He has sometimes seen Mohammed's face lighten when the
conversation was of the struggles going on in Egypt, or when the
Turkish fleet was spoken of that had gone over to chastise the
rebellious Mameluke beys! He had seen a deathly pallor overspread
Mohammed's face when on a recent occasion a merchant, who came from
Stamboul, reported that the grand-vizier had sent a great pacha to
Egypt, one who had been banished, the now so mighty Cousrouf Pacha,
the favorite of the grand-admiral. Yes, Osman had observed his
change of countenance at the mention of this name, and that he
secretly clinched his fists and grasped the hilt of his dagger; and
he alone knew that, though Mohammed's wrath found no utterance, it
still lived within him.
Mohammed had suddenly turned away on this occasion, on some
suddenly-conceived pretext, and had not been seen again that day.
He had gone alone to the summit of the rock, and Osman alone knew
that the dark speck which he saw on the crest of Bucephalus was the
figure of his friend who had sought this solitude for the purpose,
perhaps, of easing his heart of its anguish and to enjoy the holy
festival of remembrance, up there alone with God and Nature!
CHAPTER III
THE BIM BASHI.
Mohammed's countenance was graver and paler than usual when he came
down from Bucephalus. But it seemed that his heart had there
received milder and softer impressions. He spoke to his wife in more
gentle and cordial tones; and instead of repairing, as was his
custom, to a coffee-house, where merchants assembled and exchanged
their views and opinions, smoked the chibouque together, and
discussed the news received from foreign countries, he remained at
home in the family circle. At his request, Osman had come to pass
the evening with them, for Mohammed well knew that this was the
young man's only happiness. These ten years did not benefit Osman's
health; he was still the withered stalk that bows its head, but is
not torn down by the wind, but only swayed to and fro by it at its
pleasure.
Yes, Osman was weak, and firm and constant in one thing only, in his
love for his friend.
With him this feeling took the place of all else; Mohammed was to
Osman what the latter was to his father--his only joy in life! And
for these two Osman sustained himself, bore his ill health and
suffering, and let the sunlight shine upon, and the storms of life
sweep over him.
Osman understood why Mohammed was so kind and genial to-day. He knew
that the day had its significance, and that the wound bled within
secretly and incessantly. In silence Mohammed is praying for
forgiveness, for having on this day permitted his thoughts to wander
back to the past, for having sunk down in sadness upon the spot on
the brow of the rock that had once witnessed his happiness; and he
desires to be mild and gentle to his family this evening. His wife
Ada is thankful and very happy. Mohammed so rarely laughs and jests
with her, so rarely plays with the boys! To be sure he has never
grieved her, has always been kind and gentle, and has never opposed
her wishes. But yet she knows she has no share in his inmost heart.
He talks with her of the daily affairs of life, he allows her to
participate in all such matters, but he never speaks to her of his
heart's inmost thoughts, and whether he suffers and longs to leave
these desolate cliffs, or whether he is discontented with the
monotonous, matter-of-fact life he is leading--she knows not!
Mohammed has never complained to her, neither has he to his friend.
But the latter has read his friend's heart, and understands it
better than Mohammed himself. And a day was soon to come which
proved this.
A message came from Stamboul. A large ship arrived at Cavalla, and
her sailors related that a number of ships still larger and
handsomer had arrived in the Bay of Sta. Marmara. The ship put out a
boat, which came to the shore and landed a richly-attired officer
who went up to Cavalla. He repaired to the palace and delivered a
letter, secured with magnificent seals, to the tschorbadji. The
letter was from Cousrouf Pacha to his host of former years. He had
not been heard from since that time, and the tschorbadji had
supposed himself long since forgotten. He was familiar with the ways
of the great, whose lips are ever ready to utter promises, which are
forgotten, the next hour. Ten years have elapsed, and but rarely
have Cousrouf Pacha, his new grandeur, and the great things the
future had in store for him, been heard of in Cavalla. And now a
letter announces that Cousrouf Pacha still remembers, and gladly
remembers, former days.
"The Sublime Porte has determined," so read the pacha's letter to
the governor, "the Sublime Porte has determined to oppose the French
occupation of Egypt with energy. The rich land of Egypt belongs to
the Sublime Porte, and without any color of right France takes
possession of it as its own property."
Yes, the republic of France had done this, had landed at Alexandria
with large armies, and had inundated almost the whole of Egypt with
its soldiers. But the Mameluke Beys, who have so long considered
themselves the masters of the country, had taken the field and
fought the invaders. In Stamboul, also, they had long been preparing
for war, and now that all preparations were made, and an army ready
to take the field against the French, each province, yes, each
village of the empire, was to furnish its quota of soldiers in
addition. Messengers had been sent out to every city and village in
the empire to call on the young men in the name of the grand-sultan
to flock to the flag to defend Egypt.
Cavalla was also to furnish its quota, and the pacha's instructions
were, that the governor should with all speed uniform three hundred
young men, and send them to him.
Cousrouf Pacha had, however, also written, "That the governor may
see in what glad remembrance I hold the past, and that I am
grateful, I request that his son Osman be placed at their head as
captain, and come with them. And," continued the pacha, "as his
lieutenant, young Mohammed Ali, if still living, may be serviceable.
However, I suppose that his own violence and passion have consumed
this young man, as he persistently labored at his own destruction.
If this, how ever, is not the case, and his extraordinary strength
of constitution has preserved him, the youth must have become a
strong man, and we need such men for our army."
The governor informed Mohammed and his son of what the pacha had
written. He requested Mohammed to assist him in recruiting and
equipping the men, and Mohammed willingly gave his assistance. He
repaired to Praousta and the neighboring places and assisted in the
work. He soothed the displeasure of the men called on to take the
field, spoke of the heroic deeds they could perform, and of the
beautiful land to which they were to go, so distant from the quiet,
desolate Praousta.
And in a few days the three hundred men were ready to embark. But
how was it with regard to the captain and his lieutenant? Osman had
reserved his decision for the last day, and Mohammed seemed to have
entirely forgotten that he was selected as the captain's lieutenant.
He had not spoken of it during these days; Cousrouf's mention of him
seemed to have made no impression on him, and his attention appeared
to have been directed wholly to the equipment of the soldiers. Now
that all was in readiness, Osman sent his friend word to come to
him, as he wished to converse with him on a matter of grave
importance. Mohammed willingly acceded to this request and repaired
at once to the garden-house, where, since the days of his childhood,
a couch had at all times stood in readiness for the governor's poor,
sickly son, and seated himself at his side, as he was in the habit
of doing.
"You wished to see me about something, Osman. What is it?"
"What is it?" said Osman, with his softest smile, laying his hand on
his friend's shoulder and regarding him fixedly. "Well, I should
think you ought to know. Try to divine it!"
Mohammed slowly shook his head. "By Allah, I am ignorant what it is,
Osman!"
"Well," said the latter, smiling, "I wish to speak of our departure
with the troops."
"What do you mean by that?"
"What do I mean? The pacha, Cousrouf, has appointed me captain of
the three hundred soldiers, and you my lieutenant."
"He has done so, to be sure, but we of course decline the
appointment," said Mohammed, shrugging his shoulders.
"And why?" asked Osman, with an expression of profound astonishment.
"Why? Well, my Osman, you surely cannot think of--"
"I understand you," said Osman, nodding his head; "you mean I cannot
think of accepting any such position as it would beseem a man of my
rank to hold. But I feel myself in better health; it seems as though
the thought of such a possibility had given me new strength and
energy. Who knows, perhaps, the luxurious, effeminate life I have
always led is the great cause of my ill-health and weakness; a new
or adventurous life may do me good. It is often said that the
greater part of disease is mere imagination. If one shakes this off,
he shakes his disease off with it. Therefore, I have decided to try
this remedy myself. After full consideration, I have concluded to
accept the position of captain of our troops."
"You are really in earnest!" exclaimed Mohammed, springing to his
feet in alarm. "You will actually take this position of captain, go
to the war, and leave as!"
"Leave us? " repeated Osman. "No, we two, of course, remain
together, my friend. You go with me. You are selected as my
lieutenant. You know Cousrouf Pacha added words of praise and
acknowledgment for you, too."
Mohammed's eye glittered for a moment, but he looked down quickly.
"Yes, he did this, and his conduct is very noble and generous, for
he well knows that I do not love him, and that I was once his
enemy."
"Once," repeated Osman, closely regarding his friend. "But that was
a long while ago, and we have done with the dreams of our youth long
since, have we not, Mohammed? What then was, has passed away. He no
longer thinks of the childlike defiance you displayed toward him,
the great pacha; and the sorrow and suffering he caused you are long
since forgotten."
"Yes," replied Mohammed, in low tones, "yes, it is forgotten. All
sorrow and suffering are over. You are right. All things pass away,
and time heals all wounds-mine, too. They are healed. Cousrouf has
forgotten the boy's defiance, as you say, and you observe that what
I have suffered at his hands is also forgotten. But I shall not
leave this place-I may not."
"You may and you shall," said Osman, and there was a more earnest
and manly ring in his voice than Mohammed had ever before heard. "Do
you not suppose, my boy, my beloved, my second self--do you not
suppose that I read your soul, and know what is smouldering and
lamenting in your inmost heart? Mohammed, I believe you do not wish
to understand yourself. You have enveloped your heart in a veil
which you do not wish to rend asunder, even before your own vision.
But I, my Mohammed, can see through this covering, and know your
heart's most secret thoughts. Be still--say nothing yet. First
consider, and then give me a reply. Your Osman accepts the position,
and it seems to me it would become his friend Mohammed to go with
him where laurels, glory, and magnificence, are awaiting you. Look
at me, my friend; look at the poor, frail body for which you are so
necessary a support, and let us be silent about all the rest for the
present. Yet do not forget that Osman loves you, and is ready to
make any sacrifice for you. Say nothing now, Mohammed, but reflect
on what I have said. And if you love me, and think you owe me your
love, and wish to prove your friendship for me, accept the proffered
position, and go out with me into the world. Go, and reflect about
it, Mohammed, and, when you have decided, come to me with your
answer."
Mohammed left the garden as his friend had asked him, the words "you
must go with me where laurels, glory, and magnificence await you,"
resounding in his heart. He hears them everywhere, at home with his
wife, in the midst of his family. And then the voice of reason would
in its turn make itself heard: "You should not abandon the woman who
rescued you from death, and has given you comfort, wealth, and
position. You should not abandon the children, whom you are called
on to instruct and protect."
"No, I ought not to go," he repeated to himself, as he sat down
beside Ada, and called his children to him. "No, I must remain
here."
And yet, again and again, Osman's words come back to him.
He could not bear to chat with his lips, while such voices were
speaking in his heart. He must leave the house, seek solitude, and
consult with his own thoughts. He made some pretence of pressing
business requiring his attention, and went out into the street. He
started to walk rapidly toward the spot on the rock, where he had so
often sought solitude and consolation. Suddenly he felt a hand laid
on his shoulder, he turned and saw the old Sheik of Praousta, the
successor of Masa's father, who gave him a kindly greeting.
Mohammed always found pleasure with the old man of whom the people
said that he had the gift of prophecy, and could read the future.
Mohammed did not believe in this, but he did believe in his wisdom
and experience of the world; and knew that much was to be learned
from the old man, who had been a great traveller, and had now
returned to his home to rest, to spend the evening of his days as
Sheik of Praousta.
"How fares it with you?" repeated the sheik, fixing his large dark
eyes on Mohammed in a kindly gaze.
"Well, my business affairs are prosperous."
The sheik shook his head. "It was not concerning such matters that I
inquired. Ah, Mohammed, it is frequently well with our business
affairs, and just the reverse with ourselves."
"Well, then, things go well with myself, also," replied Mohammed,
but with averted gaze.
The old man shook his head. "I can read a man's thoughts on his
forehead, Mohammed, and I tell you sad thoughts are inscribed on
yours." And with another shake of the head he continued: "The
governor has, as you know, raised a body of three hundred soldiers;
Osman has been appointed their captain, and yourself his
lieutenant."
"Cousrouf Pacha is a generous man," said Mohammed, in a peculiar
tone. "He graciously forgets the days that have been."
"No, my son," said the sheik, "Cousrouf Pacha is a proud, cruel man,
and he now wishes to show himself to those who saw him in those days
when he was powerless, and an exile, in his grandeur and
magnificence. You must know, my son, that oftentimes that which
seems noble and generous, consists really only of vaingloriousness
and love of display."
"I thank you for these words, O sheik," cried Mohammed, with a
fierce gesture, "I thank you for having spoken from my soul. Young
as I then was, I believe I thoroughly understood this man, and I am
glad you interpret my thoughts so well."
"Mohammed," said the sheik, after a pause, "you must accompany your
young friend Osman."
"Osman! no, that is impossible; how can Osman fill such a position?"
"He can," said the sheik, "for you, Mohammed, will accompany him."
"No, sheik, I shall not accompany him; I shall remain here."
"You will remain here, and why?"
"I have a wife and children," replied Mohammed, quickly, as if
speaking to himself. "I cannot separate myself from them. I must not
think of it; I have a home, a family, a prosperous business, and I
live a peaceful life; why, therefore, O sheik, go out into the
troubled world to end my days, perhaps, in misery? Here, I know what
I am--a respected merchant, a favorite of the governor, the friend
of his son, and I may boast of your friendship, too, sheik. Tell me,
why should I subject myself to the tempest of life again, and go to
Egypt to fight the unbelievers? The distance is great, the future
beset with danger and difficulties; and here I have happiness, and
an assured future."
"You are right; the distance is great, and your future one of danger
and difficulties," replied the sheik. "Yes, therein you are right,
but you are wrong when you determine not to go."
"Wrong--wrong, you say?"
"Yes, Mohammed, you are wrong; for, though the way is long and the
future one of danger and difficulty, yet is the reward that awaits
you, laurels and renown, glorious."
"Sheik, do not speak thus to me," cried Mohammed, "do not tempt me
to do what I may repent; what may bring misfortune upon my wife and
children. No, rather tell me to silence these voices that are ever
resounding in my heart. Oh, do not tell me to make ambition the
pursuit of my life."
"And yet I must do so," replied the sheik. "I tell you, you would
act with great injustice if you should refuse to awaken the hero
that slumbers in you, if you should condemn the warrior to
inactivity, for the sake of the merchant. Allah himself would be
displeased, Mohammed, for he has given you the capacity to perform
great things, and implanted great thoughts and plans in your heart.
And now the way is open to you, and you can carry out these plans.
Therefore, when you see Osman again, tell him that you will go with
him. And now, farewell, Mohammed; consult with your thoughts, and be
strong."
Greeting Mohammed with a wave of his hand, the sheik turned and
walked away, leaving his friend gazing after him in amazement.
The people are right: the sheik is a prophet; else how could he know
what he had discussed with Osman that day, inducing him to consider
the matter and give his decision by the following morning? But,
then, if he is a prophet, he has also announced the truth and
foretold the future. Very great things are in store for him, and the
whole world of glory dreamed of in his youth lies open to him. This
may then still be realized. No, Mohammed, deny yourself and be
strong. Bow beneath the will of Allah; and it surely cannot be his
will that you should forsake wife and children, but, rather, that
you should remain patiently with them.
He returned to his house, but it was in vain that he endeavored to
silence the voices that whispered in his heart.
With earliest dawn he arose noiselessly from the couch on which he
had passed a restless night.
The sun has risen! Is it for the last time that he sees it mount
above these cliffs? Perhaps! He ascends the mountain-rock, higher
and higher. Now he stands still; he is approaching a consecrated
spot!
Why should he come to this place now? His heart had never before
permitted him to approach it since he had become Ada's husband. Why
does he now long again to mount to the spot on which he had never
stood after those days? Since then he has become a man and another
being. There he had exchanged vows of eternal love with his Masa!
There, all Nature heard him swear: "I love you alone, and no other
woman shall ever stand at my side!"
The youth which had uttered these words died in him long ago.
Mohammed Ali was now a man, had a wife, and children called him
father; and the man had hitherto avoided treading on this
consecrated ground. But now he is driven there by an irresistible
longing!
He walks rapidly on, and is soon there.
He stands where he had stood with Masa; where he had called down
imprecations on her head because he thought her faithless; where he
had also listened in pious devotion to the holy revelation of her
love.
Ten years have passed since then. What has remained of those hopes,
and of that love?
His dreams have ended, and his illusions are dissipated.
"O Masa! and people call me a happy man. O Mother Khadra, look down
into your son's heart! The voices I long since thought silenced
forever, are again aroused--the voices of love and ambition. O
mother, it is as though I saw you before me again, and heard you
relate your dream! You saw your son standing upon the pinnacle of a
palace, a sword uplifted in his hand, a crown encircling his brow,
and you knew, mother, that this man with crown and sceptre, attired
in purple, was your son; and this man transformed himself into an
angel, and flew to you and kissed you. The man you beheld as a
prince and hero, has again transformed himself, and this time into a
miserable merchant. Nothing has remained to him of the prince, and
angel, and hero; he is nothing more than a poor worm of earth!"
He cries out loudly and fiercely. All the anguish of former days,
all the ungratified longings of the past, are again awakened, and,
long pent up, now break forth in a fiery flood, and sweep away and
burn to ashes all reason, all calm reflection, all the fruit of
these ten long, desolate years of tranquility and patient industry.
After a struggle with himself, he arose, and a deep sigh, like a
death-groan, escaped his breast.
It was his intention to go to Osman and say: "It is settled, I
remain! I have just committed a murder on myself; I have killed
Mohammed Ali, the eagle, as his mother called him, and there remains
only the merchant Mohammed! He will creep on, composedly, over the
surface of the earth, collecting tobacco, rolling it into great
balls, and rejoicing when he finds his profit in so doing."
But it seemed as though his footsteps were clogged, as though an
invisible hand held him back, and compelled him to remain a while
longer on this spot where he had stood with Masa. And now it seemed
to him that her form suddenly arose from her cold grave in the waves
over there beyond the cliffs. She was arrayed in purple, her
starlike eyes were fixed on him, and her long hair enveloped her
beloved form as with a golden veil, the water dripping from her like
glittering pearls. It gradually arose out of the waters. He had seen
such visions, such fata morgana, that appeared not unfrequently on
this coast, many a time, and had hitherto smiled at such illusions.
But today he forgot his knowledge and experience, and the illusion
was to him reality. He stretched out his arms, and gazed at the
heavenly picture that had risen out of the waves, and his lips
whispered in longing accents: "Masa, come to me; let the water that
drips from you fall on my burning heart, soothe my anguish; speak to
me of my future, and tell me what you desire me to do. Oh, speak to
me, Masa!"
Enraptured, he still gazed out into the air at the sweet vision that
rose higher and higher out of the waves. At last it stretched out
its arms over him, and a cold breath kissed his lips! After a long
pause, he opened his eyes again. Had he been dreaming? Was it
reality? He lay on the rock alone in the morning light of the sun.
The image had disappeared, and silence surrounded him, profound
silence.
And in this silence Mohammed formed his last, his decisive resolve.
As he lay there, he had entreated Allah to deliver him, by death,
from this tormenting struggle, this doubt. The hour of irresolution
had now passed, and he felt strengthened with renewed life. He
looked up at the heavens; and a hitherto undreamed of world seemed
to lie open before him. He looked out into the purple distance, and
he seemed to be hold the minarets, and temples, and mountains, and
plains of a new land. Was he never to reach this land? Were all the
dreams of his youth to come to naught, and the prophecies made by
the woman who had told his mother that he was to be a hero, to
remain unfulfilled? And was Masa to remain unavenged in her cold
grave? He has duties to fulfil toward wife and children. But revenge
is also a sacred duty, and he has sworn to himself a thousand times,
that he will perform this duty. Vengeance for Masa! Vengeance on
him! The hour has come! Grasp the occasion! He may fail in his
career, but, if successful, his success will be great, divine. It
will be heavenly, if he must die, to fall on the field of battle
amid the roar of artillery, and the clash of arms. Such a death were
far preferable to a life like that he now leads, protracted through
long, weary years. Who has brought about this struggle, and
implanted these aspirations in his breast? It is Allah's work! In
his early youth, his mother had told him of her dreams, and hope for
her boy! Who was it that arose from the waves and permitted him to
see in her dewy hand a sword and a crown! It was Masa, his Masa!
These three, Allah, his mother, and Masa, have spoken to him, and
Mohammed has heard and understood their words.
As he stands there on the verge of the cliff, gazing out into the
distance, and listening to the sea murmuring at his feet, he now
feels that he is the instrument chosen to do great deeds. He must
obey Destiny, he must respond to the appeal of revenge, of honor,
and of renown. And a threatening voice whispers in his soul:
"Cousrouf Pacha, beware! You have called your judge yourself.
Beware, the avenger will appear! You will not recognize him, for his
countenance will smile, and his bearing will be soft and composed.
You will not recognize him, but he will come. Beware, Cousrouf
Pacha!"
Mohammed now turns to descend to Cavalla, and he feels himself a
changed, a new man.
He slowly descended, his head erect, his breast swelling with a
proud joyousness. The struggle is over, and the voice of anguish is
forever stilled. Mohammed cones among men again another and a better
man, and, before returning to his own house, he repairs to the
palace of the tschorbadji, to seek his friend Osman.
When Osman saw him coming he smiled, nodded to him, and held out his
hand.
"Well, my Mohammed, I see by your countenance that the struggle is
over, and that Mohammed knows what future is in store for him."
Mohammed grasped his friend's hand warmly in his own, a bright smile
lighting up his countenance.
"He at least knows, my Osman, what demands he intends to make of the
future, and, if they are not accorded, he will at least know how to
die gloriously."
CHAPTER IV
THE EMBARKATION.
"Is it then really true, Osman?" asked the governor, with tears in
his eyes. "Have you resolved to leave me and assume command of the
troops?"
"Yes, my dear father, I have. It is time I showed myself to be a
man! And do you not think the uniform of a bim bashi will become me
well; and that I, too, have some desire to parade in my finery
before beautiful women, and be honored with their gracious looks?"
"You are jesting, my son," said the tschorbadji, sadly. "With a
grave air your lips speak joyous words of which your heart knows
nothing. No, you cannot deceive your father. It is not the uniform
that charms you, nor has or can war have any thing attractive for
you."
"You mean by that, father, that a sickly, weak man, like myself, can
take no pleasure in military service. Believe me, it will make me
healthier and stronger. I have been treated like an invalid long
enough, and have not benefited by such treatment. Let us now defy
fate and ill health. Moreover," he continued, after a short pause,
"moreover, I have chosen Mohammed to be my companion, my lieutenant,
in order that I might have a strong arm to lean on. With Mohammed at
my side, I shall have no fear in the conflict. His presence will
give me the needful strength. I tell you I feel stronger and better
already. But now let me go and put on my uniform. And do you not
think you will be proud of my soldierly appearance yourself when you
walk down to the ship with me, and hear people whisper to each
other: 'That is Osman! We would not have believed him to be so
stately and strong a man!' Tell me, would this not gladden your
heart?"
He nodded to his father, and without awaiting his answer turned and
went hastily to his apartments, to put on his uniform.
The tschorbadji looked after him sadly.
"If I could only discover what secret purpose induces my son to play
the soldier! I will ask Mohammed, and also request him to watch over
my son."
He went down into the court-yard where Mohammed, dressed in the
uniform of the boulouk bashi again, was engaged in drawing up his
soldiers in rank and file, preparatory to marching them down to the
harbor, where they were to embark. He beckoned to Mohammed to come
into the hall, and laid his hand gently on his shoulder. "I can
count on you, my friend, can I not?"
"Tschorbadji, you can count on me at all times, while life lasts!"
"You will watch over my Osman? " said he, in low tones. "You will
not permit him to undertake that which his body is unable to bear,
though his spirit be well equal to the task?"
"I will care for him as though he were my better self, as I would
for the woman I love!" said Mohammed. "I well know that his spirit
is strong, but his body is delicate. And therefore when he goes into
danger, and I cannot prevent it, I will protect him unto death, with
my own body! This I swear to you by Allah, and by my love for my
friend Osman!"
"I thank you, Mohammed," said the tschorbadji, deeply moved. "My
Osman is my only joy in life. You are a father, too, Mohammed, and
you know how a father loves his child."
"I do, tschorbadji," replied he, "and as a father I beg you to look
after my children sometimes. You are related to them through their
mother; shield and protect them, and if the news should come that
destiny has been unfavorable to me, or favorable if you will, and I
shall have fallen on the field of battle, think of this moment, and
watch over my boys! They will be well provided for, as far as the
goods of this world are concerned. I have made over all I possess,
and all I have earned since I began my business, to my wife; from
this hour all that was mine is hers. I take nothing out into the
world with me; I will enter it as a new man. It all came from my
wife, and it is now restored to her. I am going out into the world a
new man, but the old love will remain here in Cavalla with my wife
and with you, and it will accompany me in the person of my beloved
Osman. You need have no fear on our account. While I live, Osman
shall be protected and watched over."
While they were conversing in the hall, Osman was put ting on the
uniform of the bim bashi. His faithful slaves were assisting him,
and rejoiced in his magnificence; and as he now stood before them in
his gold-embroidered uniform, his too slender waist encircled with a
broad leather girdle, from which dangled his sword with its golden
hilt, and to which his two pistols, with jewelled stocks, were
attached, his slaves cried out with delight, and fell on their knees
and kissed his feet.
He told them to rise and to get themselves ready, as these two
faithful servants were to accompany him.
When they had gone, Osman sank down upon his cushions exhausted.
"0 Allah, give me strength sufficient to walk down to the shore with
the appearance of health.-Be strong, poor, weak breast, suppress
your pain until I have reached the ship!--Make me strong, Allah,
until my aim is attained, until I have proved to my friend that I
love him."
Hearing footsteps approaching, he sprang to his feet and assumed a
cheerful and composed manner, as his father and Mohammed came in and
announced that all was in readiness for their departure, and that
the soldiers were only waiting for their bim bashi to march down to
the shore.
"I, however, my bim bashi, have come with a request," said Mohammed,
quickly, "and I hope he will not refuse his boulouk bashi's first
request. I beg you, Osman, to go with your father in advance to the
shore, and take up your position there. I will then follow with the
soldiers, and pass with them in review before you. This is
appropriate, and you must al low the boulouk bashi and the soldiers
to show you these honors."
"If such is the custom, then let it be so," said Osman, smiling.--
"Let us now go, father, as Mohammed requests."
"But I also have a request to make, my son," said the tschorbadji.
"I have met with an accident: in crossing the court-yard I sprained
my ankle slightly, and I cannot walk, as it pains me. You must
therefore do me the kindness to al low yourself to be carried down
with me in the palanquin. It will excite no surprise; the soldiers
saw me when the accident occurred, and no one will suppose it is on
your account."
"It seems to me, father," replied Osman, gravely, "that the bim
bashi should walk down, and await his soldiers standing."
"And he shall," said his father, quickly. "Below he shall await his
soldiers, standing, while the poor tschorbadji must remain seated in
his palanquin.-Oh, the pain! Let me support myself on your arm,
Mohammed! You have no idea how my foot hurts!"
Osman averted his face, that they might not see the tears that stood
in his eyes. He discerned, only too well, that they both knew his
weakness and were tenderly caring for him!
But, in spirit at least, he must be a man, and he turns and looks at
them firmly and composedly.
"Then come, father. I will go down with you in the palanquin."
The slaves and servants saw the tschorbadji, supported by Mohammed,
limp to the palanquin; Osman followed them with firm footstep, his
head proudly erect. The people rejoiced in his stately appearance,
and in the glittering uniform that became him so well.
Osman was carried down to Praousta at his father's side. The
fishermen, who stood there awaiting him, greeted the young bim bashi
with loud huzzas. They wished him happiness and success in his
military career.
Osman thanked them in a loud, clear voice, and no one knew what pain
the effort cost him. Arrived at the shore, he stepped out of the
palanquin with an appearance of joyous haste, and took up his
position beside his father to receive from the soldiers, who were
now approaching, Mohammed at their head, the military honors. And
now the hour of leave taking had arrived. The admiral's boat had
come to convey the bim bashi to the ship. The tschorbadji insisted
on accompanying his son on board, and seated himself beside him in
the boat into which the slaves and servants who were to go with
Osman now also entered.
Mohammed had declined to go with them to the vessel. The soldiers
must first be embarked, and the boulouk bashi will be the last to
leave the shore, for this the military law requires.
The boats were soon filled with the soldiers, and the bay, covered
with all kinds of skiffs, boats, and barks, now presented a very
gay, lively spectacle. The entire population of Praousta and Cavalla
were assembled on the shore to witness the embarkation.
Ada and her boys had also come down, and were gathered around the
husband and father to take leave of him; beside them stood
Mohammed's old friend, the merchant Lion. As the boats now began to
put off from the shore, Mohammed took his wife's hand and led her
aside, away from the others.
"Ada, my wife," said he, "I bid you a last farewell!"
She sobbed beneath her veil, and tears poured in streams from her
eyes.
"You weep on my account," said he; "that proves that I have at least
not made my wife unhappy, and that she is not glad to be alone."
"Ah, Mohammed," murmured she, "happy have you made me, and I owe you
thanks for many glad years!"
"And I thank you for these words," said he, gently. "I will take
them with me as an amulet to protect me without, in the world. Think
of me, and watch over my children. Care for them, and do not let
them become the drones or drudges of existence. Remember that their
father is a soldier, and that he remains one to the end! Raise my
children with reference to this! Have them instructed, Ada, for my
sons must not come as ignorant soldiers to my army!"
"To your army?" exclaimed Ada, regarding him in astonishment--"your
army?"
He started; his inmost thoughts had for a moment escaped his lips.
"The army in which I serve!" said he, quickly. "Have my boys taught
to read and write; this is necessary, believe me. And now, farewell,
and receive my thanks for all the beautiful days and years which you
have sought to bless me with!"
He did not say, "which you have blessed me with." He did not wish to
take leave of her with a falsehood on his lips, and his eye glanced
over toward the place where Masa had sunk beneath the waves. There
lay his happiness buried, and from that grave it had never risen.
Ada knew it not, he had never complained, and never seemed
discontented; she had thought him happy. His love and thirst for
revenge had hitherto slumbered, but now they were awakened to new
life. He would have vengeance on him who had murdered her he loved,
and heaped insult upon himself! He is now going out into the world,
where he must meet Cousrouf Pacha, and on him will he wreak
vengeance for all his wrongs and sufferings! Yes, his Masa, his
white dove, shall be avenged!
With such thoughts, Mohammed enters the boat that rapidly conveys
him to the ship where Osman stands on the deck awaiting him.
"Welcome, Mohammed! We are on the road to honor and renown!"
"Yes, my Osman, to honor and renown," responded Mohammed.
"And may Allah's blessing accompany you!" said the tschorbadji,
holding his son in his arms in a farewell embrace. He then enters
the boat that awaits him, and is rowed back to the shore.
Osman stands on the deck beside his friend; the soldiers stand
around, silent and respectful in the presence of their bim bashi,
and now the farewell gun is fired.
The governor, Ada, and the merchant, who stand in a group on the
shore, wave their handkerchiefs: "Farewell, farewell!"
Mohammed turns to Osman. "Be joyous, my friend! We have done with
the past, and a brilliant future awaits us! Look, there rests my
Masa, and, I tell you, a monument prouder and grander than was ever
erected to woman, shall rise over her grave! The whole sea shall be
her monument, and on the coast of Egypt will I erect one to my Masa,
to my love, and my revenge!"
CHAPTER V
THE CAMP AT ABOUKIR.
THE life of the Mameluke beys had for months been a continuous
festival. Nothing but pleasure and festivity; nothing but assurances
of love and friendship on the part of their former enemies, the
Turks.
Since the hated Franks, after so many struggles, so many defeats and
fruitless shedding of blood, had embarked in their proud ships and
returned to Europe, the prospects for peace in the land that was
bleeding from a thousand wounds seemed to be bright. Friends and
enemies had made these wounds; friends and enemies had torn the once
fair form of the beautiful land of the Pharaohs, and converted it
into a hideous corpse.
The battle-fields of Aboukir, the Pyramids of Gheezeh, the blood-
soaked fields of Syria, the overthrown walls of St. Jean d'Acre, and
of the magnifient city of the caliphs, Cairo, tell of the French
general, Bonaparte, who, at the head of his army, had entered upon a
crusade in order to bless Egypt with civilization. This was his
pretext. He intended, with his sans culottes, to carry civilization
to the Orient, and, not being able to convert them to Christianity
by persuasion or, trickery, he determined to baptize them with
blood.
At first the Mameluke beys, who until then had ruled in Egypt, and
had, in protracted struggles, endeavored to cast off their
allegiance to the grand-sultan, had supposed it would be an easy
matter to drive back the French barbarians from the yellow shores of
Africa.
Mourad Bey, the chief of all the Mameluke beys, was sitting at a
joyous banquet in Alexandria, when several of his officers rushed
into the hall to announce that a number of ships were entering the
harbor, and that a body of Franks had already landed. The Mameluke
chieftain laughed, and, without rising from his seat, said to the
messengers, "Give these French beggars a bakshish, and tell them to
clear out, or Mourad Bey will compel them to do so."
"But," observed the English consul, who had just entered the hall,
"excellency, these Franks have come to possess themselves of Egypt.
Hasten to make preparations for your defence."
Mourad Bey laughed again. "You take a gloomy view of things, my
friend.--Go and give these wretches something to eat, and, as I have
already ordered, a little money also, and then advise them to depart
with all speed, or I will have them driven off by my servants."
But the Franks were not to be driven off so easily. They were
bringing civilization, the glory of the French Republic, to Egypt,
and were determined to make them happy by force. The republic at
home had become too small for the great general. "Europe is a mere
mole-hill," he had said; "there never were great kingdoms and great
enterprises elsewhere than in the Orient, where six hundred million
people live!"
And it was indeed a great enterprise that Bonaparte wished to
attempt in Egypt, and great things be really did accomplish there.
So great were they, that General Kleber, in secret his enemy and
rival, could nevertheless not refrain from saying, after one of the
victories:
"You are as great, Bonaparte, as the world, but the world is too
small for your glory!"
And yet a day had come when the man who was too great for the world
had to make himself small before the victorious Mameluke beys, when
he secretly, accompanied by a few faithful followers only, departed
from Egypt to return to the mole-hill Europe, to seek a crown for
himself there. Bonaparte had left behind, in want and misery, the
army that had suffered so much, not only from battle and disease,
but also from the cruelty of its leaders. Was it not at Jaffa that
Bonaparte caused the sick and wounded to be poisoned, in order to
shorten their sufferings? And one other deed of cruelty of the
general of civilization, who had gone to Egypt to confer happiness
upon the unbelievers, stands recorded in the books of history. Was
it not in Egypt that the French general caused the prisoners of war
who had surrendered to General Desaix to be led down to the seashore
and shot, contrary to the usages of warfare? Four thousand Arabian
soldiers were assassinated in this manner. This was one of the
monuments of civilization erected by the French general in the
Orient! And the revolt in Cairo, the massacre of so many French
soldiers, and the hatred of the whole people, was the harvest reaped
by Bonaparte for this bloody deed.
"Death to the Franks!" was the cry of every Egyptian--the cry that
was common to the Mameluke chieftain and the lowest fellah.
"Death to the Franks!" murmured the sheiks and ulemas with each
prayer. And when Bonaparte had secretly fled, this ominous cry
resounded through all Egypt--"Death to the Franks!"
General Kleber, Bonaparte's successor, was the first victim
sacrificed. At Cairo, on the grand square of the Esbekieh, under the
large sycamore at a corner of the harem of one of the Mameluke beys,
he was stricken down by the dagger of a fanatical Turk. And now
terror and dismay possessed itself of the whole army, and not only
were the Egyptians glad when the command came from Europe that the
French soldiers should embark, but the latter also esteemed
themselves happy when, from the decks of their ships, they saw the
yellow coast of Africa gradually disappear. Since then, bright,
happy days seemed to have come again for the proud Mameluke beys,
and happiness appeared to dawn again over the stricken land. The
English, who, off the coast of Egypt, had destroyed the French
ships, their armada, were now masters of the situation. They united
themselves with the Mameluke beys, and undertook to mediate between
them and the Turkish ruler.
"Egypt is to be blessed with peace, and they who have so long
contended with each other in bitter hostility are to extend their
hands to each other. Let recognition be accorded to the Mameluke
beys, and favorable conditions of peace offered them, and they will
submit." This Lord Balan had announced to the grand-sultan, and his
first servant, the grand-vizier, at Stamboul. And he had gone to and
fro, from Cairo to Stamboul, from Stamboul to Cairo, until peace was
at last, as it seemed, secured.
"The Mameluke beys," so read the last decision of the grand-sultan,
Selim II., "are to leave Cairo and to go to Upper Egypt, where large
tracts of land are to be assigned them, with their wives, their
treasures, and their servants, to rule there in freedom and
magnificence."
The Mamelukes took these propositions into favorable consideration;
they were weary of bloodshed and longed for the peaceful desert
plains and for the sunny tents, where they could rest from their
long struggles in quiet comfort, listen to the songs of the female
slaves, and gaze at the voluptuous dances of the almehs. Yes, they
will return home to the beloved south, to the cataracts of the Nile,
to the sunny shores where the temple ruins of by-gone magnificence
stand out against the deep blue sky.
Yes, they longed for peace, and for the sublime stillness of the
desert; they consented to Lord Balan's proposition, and declared
themselves ready to meet the servants of the sultan, and arrange
with them the boundaries of the tracts of land that were to be
assigned to them, and to conclude peace. They had, therefore, in
response to the invitation of the Turks, come out to the peninsula
of Aboukir. There, on the wide plain that had three years before
been drenched with the blood of the French and the Egyptians, now
stood the stately tents of the Turks and the Mamelukes.
It was a splendid spectacle, the wide plain with its array of gayly-
decorated tents, with its great squares, on which the Mamelukes
mounted on their proud steeds, displayed their skill with the spear
and the gun, exciting the admiration of the Turks by their skill and
agility.
All was festivity, and life was enjoyed as though it were an
uninterrupted chain of pleasures. Yet there were some who felt less
contented than these Mameluke beys, some who had learned from the
French that promises and assurances of friendship were not always to
be relied on.
Many of the beys had brought their wives with them, for the wives of
the beys enjoyed greater liberty than those of the Turks, and they
could move about among the tents, with as little constraint as in
the streets of Cairo. The Mameluke honors his bey's wife, and bows
down in the dust before her, when she passes by with head erect and
veiled countenance, followed by her slaves.
On this, the fourteenth day of their sojourn at Aboukir, the
Mamelukes also bow profoundly before a woman who, followed by two
servants, is passing down between the double row of tents, and
whisper to each other: "This is the wife of our greatest chieftain,
the deceased Mourad Bey! How does it happen that she has left her
beautiful palace in Cairo? For what purpose has Sitta Nefysseh come
to Aboukir?"
And when she had passed, the Mamelukes raised their heads and
followed with their eyes the white form as it swept on between the
tents, and observed with astonishment that Mourad Bey's widow had
stopped at the tent of the bey who was now their first chief, at the
tent of Osman Bey Bardissi. Mourad's widow, and those who
accompanied her, entered this tent.
He lay on the divan, smoking his chibouque. But upon her appearance
at the entrance to the tent, he sprang to his feet.
"You here, Sitta-you in the camp at Aboukir?"
"I have come to speak with you," she replied, earnestly.--"Let the
rest leave the tent. Mourad's widow can be alone with the man whom
her deceased husband called his dear friend."
He waved his hand imperiously, and all the servants with drew from
the tent, closing the gold-embroidered curtains behind them.
"Speak!" said the bey, in deferential tones. "Your servant hears,
and is ready to obey your commands."
"I have not come to command," replied she; "I have come to warn you,
Osman."
"To warn me, Sitta?"
"Yes, Osman. You have allowed yourselves to be deceived by the
flattering words of those who call themselves your friends, but can
never be other than your enemies. Do you suppose that the sultan
will ever give you, his hated enemies--you, the haughty Mameluke
beys-your rights and your freedom? I, who gazed in my dying Mourad's
eyes and read his last thoughts, I say to you, that the sultan will
not rest until death has closed your lips forever, or until you have
closed his! I tell you they are planning your destruction. Do not
ask from what source my information comes. The wise man will listen
and take the advice of the woman who was his friend's wife. Demand
this very day, that, after these long-continued festivities, the
grave matters that call you here be immediately proceeded with;
demand that the conditions on which the sultan is to make you free
and independent in Upper Egypt be plainly stated. And if they will
not name them, then embark in your boats before the sun sets, and
return to Cairo; for, believe me, there alone will you be safe! I
come to you in the name of Destiny, by whom I have been warned! My
lord and master appeared to me last night in a dream, showed me his
bleeding wounds, and said to me: 'Go and save my friends. Say to
them that the last battle has not yet been fought at Aboukir, and
tell them that, if they do not hasten to depart, the waves that
encircle Aboukir will soon be reddened with their blood, as was the
said of Aboukir a few years ago!' And therefore have I come, O
Osman, to warn you! Put away from you your confidence in these
treacherous Turks. Do not hearken to the whisperings of the English
men, do not rely on the promises of your enemies. Require a decision
this very day, and if it is not given, depart at once, before the
setting of the sun. Danger threatens you all, great, fearful
danger."
"Impossible, Sitta!" replied Osman Bey, composedly. "Impossible! We
cannot depart to-day, and the decision cannot be made now. But I
have already demanded it, and they have promised that these matters
shall be arranged in the course of a few days."
"In the course of a few days!" repeated Sitta. "You have warned your
enemies yourself, Osman! They have observed that distrust has begun
to bud in your hitherto trusting heart, and with their swords and
daggers they will destroy the tender plant in its first growth. By
Allah, I conjure you, and by your love for my husband, be on your
guard; leave the peninsula, and return to Cairo!"
"If it were possible, Sitta, I would do it out of reverence for you.
But on the morrow, I promise you, I will return to the continent.
To-morrow, a festival takes place in Alexandria; Lord Balan, the
English general, is to receive his troops there, and the capitan
pacha, who is encamped here with his warriors, has invited us to
participate in the festivities at Alexandria."
"Beware, oh beware, Osman!" cried Sitta Nefysseh, extending her arms
toward heaven. "By Allah and the prophets, I conjure you, go not to
sea with the Turks to-morrow! Listen to my words, Osman! I have
devoted servants with those whom you call your friends, but who can
only be your enemies. One of them has informed me of their purpose.
Before the harbor of Alexandria lies a Turkish fleet; it lies in
wait for you, and your boats will not be allowed to land unless
freighted with your dead bodies!"
"This is not possible," cried the bey, recoiling a step in dismay.
"They cannot have planned so fearful a deception! They cannot be so
faithless! Are they not of our religion; were the prophet's words
not spoken for them as for us? Do they not know that it is written
in the Koran: 'Let a man hold his word sacred! Curses and shame upon
him who bears a lie on his lips, and yet seals it with the name of
Allah and the prophet!' No, Sitta, I tell you the capitan pacha
sealed his vow of friendship with the name of Allah and the prophet,
and the settlement of the details only was wanting to establish this
bond of friendship forever. No, Sitta, it is impossible that they
should contemplate such fearful treachery, and rather will I die a
victim of such treachery than cowardly flee, than consider men
cowards, and warriors scoundrels!"
"Then you and yours are going to your death, Osman Bey Bardissi!"
cried Nefysseh in tones of anguish. "I conjure you once more, be
warned, and, if you will not depart today, at least do not follow
the capitan pacha to the festival, but employ the time while he is
absent in preparing to defend yourselves. And, when they return,
refuse to allow them to land until they consent to come to you
unarmed."
Osman Bey shook his head proudly; and his countenance, before
troubled, was now radiant with courage and joy. "Sitta Nefysseh,
your noble heart is concerned for your friends, and I thank you in
the name of all of us. But what your womanly sensitiveness fears,
Osman Bey may not fear, and he must not show the Turks that he
distrusts them! Allah watches over us all, and his will must be
fulfilled! Why should we fear?"
"Yet Allah often warns us in our dreams, and woe to us if we do not
interpret them aright!" said Sitta Nefysseh, in tones of entreaty.
"You insist, then, on going to Alexandria to-morrow?"
"It is so determined, Sitta, and a man keeps his word!" His arms
folded on his breast, he bowed down profoundly before her, and
kissed the hem of her flowing gold-embroidered dress.
"Then may Allah accompany you! " said she, with a profound sigh.
"But let me say one thing more. When you behold my husband Mourad,
up there, among the blessed, standing under the green flag of the
prophet, say to him: `Your wife has done her duty, she gave Osman
the warning! She is innocent of our death!' and say to him also that
his wife remains faithful to him in all things, and that she will
love him alone throughout life. And now, farewell, Osman Bey
Bardissi, and think of me in your death-hour!"
She raised her hands as if in a blessing, and then turned slowly
away, drew aside the curtain, and stepped out of the tent to where
her slaves and eunuchs awaited her.
Slowly she walked down the pathway between the tents, towing to the
right and to the left to the Mamelukes, who threw themselves down
before her in profound reverence. But when she passed by the tents
of the Turks she veiled her countenance more closely, and her eyes
glanced angrily through the delicate fabric.
"Traitors are they all!" murmured she, as she entered the tent where
she dwelt with the women of Cousrouf, the second Mameluke chieftain.
"Yes, traitors, and our Mamelukes will be their victims! Yet I will
endeavor to save as many of them as possible!"
While Sitta Nefysseh sat sorrowing on her cushion, paying but little
attention to the songs which the slaves sang, and to the dances with
which they sought to entertain their mistress, the joyous
festivities of the Mamelukes and Turks were still going on. Osman
Bey had promised to show his horsemanship to-day; and it was a
beautiful spectacle to see him coursing along on his splendidly-
caparisoned black charger, his sword uplifted in his hand. His eyes
sparkled even more lustrously than the gems in the agraffe of the
crescent on the sultan's turban. In the sash that encircled his
waist glittered a pair of pistols and the jewelled hilt of a dagger,
and whoever beheld Osman Bey said to himself:" This is a man! a hero
who recoils from nothing!" Lightly bounding, his nostrils expanded,
his eyes glowing, he now rode his steed around the wide circle of
Mamelukes and Turks. With uplifted sword he then approached the
horse that stood tied to a stake in the middle of the circle.
Trembling, and neighing anxiously, it saw the hero bearing down upon
it at a full gallop; then Osman's sword glittered in the air, and
the horse's head fell to the ground, severed from the body by a
single blow. Loud and exulting shouts rewarded the bold rider for
this proof of his wonderful skill and strength, and Osman bowed
smilingly to the right and to the left, and then again drew in his
reins, and made his steed bound as lightly and coquettishly as
though it had learned its arts from the bayaderes.
Yes, Osman Bey is a great hero, and they all regard him with
astonishment, the Mamelukes with joyous smiles, the Turks with
serious countenances. While Osman Bey Bardissi lives, peace with the
Turks is not to be thought of; while life lasts, he will aspire to
greater eminence and power.
"How can peace be made with this powerful, haughty chieftain?" This
is also murmured by the capitan pacha, who stands on the deck of the
admiral's ship, and he orders that the Turkish ships weigh anchor,
and sail out of the harbor of Alexandria. Yes, Sitta Nefysseh was
right: the enemy lies in wait there. Three large Turkish ships have
been lying at anchor there ever since the Mameluke beys have been
holding fetes with the Turks at Aboukir. But to-day a fourth ship
has arrived from Stamboul--a ship manned with three hundred well-
equipped soldiers; and her captain's name is Osman, and his
lieutenant is called Mohammed Ali.
CHAPTER VI
THE MASSACRE.
The capitan pacha had himself come over in his admiral's ship to
greet the newly arrived soldiers, and to review the fleet of stately
vessels-of-war. He graciously caused Osman, the bim bashi, and
Mohammed Ali, the boulouk bashi, to be presented to him.
"You have employed the time well during your passage," said he,
slightly inclining his proud head. "You have converted rude peasants
into disciplined soldiers."
"It is not my work," replied Osman, who stood attired in his full
uniform before the capitan pacha. "No, excellency, I suffered from
the unaccustomed sea-voyage, and could hardly leave my cabin.
Mohammed Ali deserves all the credit; he drilled the soldiers on the
deck incessantly, day and night."
"Well done, well done!" said the pacha. "His services will be
recognized and rewarded."
"I beg your excellency to see that they are," said Osman, quickly.
"Truly my boulouk bashi deserves to be rewarded. I should like to
take the liberty of suggesting how he can be rewarded."
With a haughty and astonished expression, the capitan pacha regarded
the young man that stood blushing before him, his eyes sparkling
with unaccustomed lustre. He considered it somewhat presumptuous to
advise him, the capitan pacha. Yet this is not a time to be
ungracious. The newly-arrived soldiers are to be used this very day,
and should be kindly and cordially treated.
"Then tell me, bim bashi, how can I reward your lieutenant? I will
gladly do so, if it is in my power."
"You have the power, if you have the will. I beg you to give the
boulouk bashi my position."
"Give him your position! And what is to become of you?"
"Of me?" said Osman, smiling sadly. "Only what I have always been--a
poor, weak invalid. Cousrouf Pacha, our distinguished guest, wished
to show me a kindness, and, with this intention, appointed me him
bashi. Yet I at once feared that my poor body would not be able to
bear the fatigues of the service. I am weary and exhausted, and my
weak arm falls to my side when I attempt to raise the sword. I beg
that your excellency will graciously permit me to return home with
the ship to Cavalla, after the soldiers shall have been disembarked.
I also entreat of your excellency that my boulouk bashi be made
captain in my stead."
The capitan pacha turned and looked at young Mohammed Ali. Perhaps
his tall, well-knit frame, and his earnest countenance, with its
sparkling eyes, and his determined bearing, impressed him favorably.
"Bim bashi, we will see what can be done. It will depend chiefly on
the events of this day, and I will observe your boulouk bashi
closely. If he proves capable of doing well what I shall require of
him, I give you my word he shall be made bim bashi, and you shall
then be permitted to return to your home. I will, however, first
observe your boulouk bashi, and see of what stuff he is made.--I
have orders for you, boulouk bashi. But first tell me your name."
"I am called Mohammed Ali, son of Ibrahim Aga," replied Mohammed,
inclining his head with an expression of such profound reverence
that the proud capitan pacha was well pleased, and smiled
graciously.
"Mohammed Ali, son of Ibrahim Aga, step aside with me; I have
something to say to you."
The pacha walked to the end of the deck, motioning to the two slaves
who accompanied him to withdraw; he then turned to Mohammed, who
stood before him, his head bowed down in humility; his ear all
attention to the words spoken by the pacha, in low, impressive
tones.
Important words, of great and dangerous import, must they have been,
that fell slowly one after the other, like drops of blood from the
pacha's lips, for, from time to time, a deathly pallor overspread
Mohammed Ali's cheeks, and a slight shudder coursed through his
whole being. The pacha looked at him keenly, and said in a low
voice, "One can see that you are a novice."
"Yes, a novice," replied Mohammed, "but I shall soon become
accustomed to blood, and cease to recoil from dead bodies."
"Then you will achieve success in Egypt," said the pacha. "The air
here is freighted with the scent of corpses, and the sea and the
Nile have often been reddened with blood. We will see, boulouk
bashi, if the waves at our feet are not once more made red with
blood, and not with the rays of the setting sun. And now, boulouk
bashi, it will be shown whether you have understood what I have
said, and whether you are the man to execute my orders."
"I am your servant, excellency," replied Mohammed, quietly. "The
soldier has no will of his own. I am an instrument in your hands,
and I will faithfully carry out your orders."
"Then you will awaken to-morrow as bim bashi. And I believe that
will only be the first step toward the fame that awaits you. I like
you, boulouk bashi, and I wish you a brilliant career. And when you
shall have reached the summit of renown, then remember, boulouk
bashi, that it was I who gave you the key to the gates of honor.
Remember the day and the hour, for I have read a great future in
your countenance."
He then inclined his head to Mohammed Ali, and returned to where
Osman was standing, leaning against a mast, in utter exhaustion.
The pacha also spoke a few kindly words to him, and afterward
entered his boat to return to the shore of Aboukir. Mohammed then
walked up to his friend, took him in his arms like a child, and
carried him down into his cabin. He laid him on the divan, knelt
down beside him, and whispered in his ear: "Osman, no matter what
you may see or hear, do not leave your cabin to-day. Stay here, my
friend, and do not be anxious; if you hear a tumultuous noise, and
outcries, do not be alarmed, even if death-groans should resound
from the deck. The world is a hard thing, and he whose hands are not
of iron should hold himself aloof from its rude contact. You, my
Osman, are too good to play an active role in this miserable earthly
existence; and I am, therefore, almost glad that you are to return
to Cavalla; I repeat it, you are too good for this world."
"If it depended on goodness, Mohammed," said Osman, smiling, "you
should not serve the world either, for you have a better heart than
any of us."
Mohammed shook his head. "You are mistaken, you look at me with your
kindly eyes, and give me credit for your noble thoughts. I am not
good, no, do not believe that of me! Now that we are about to
separate, I do not wish you to be deceived in your Mohammed Ali; I
am only good when with you, and under the influence of your gentle
nature; I fear I have the stuff in me of which hard and cruel men
are made. But let us drop this subject. Duty calls me away. And let
me repeat this, Osman, whatever outcries you may hear, whatever
fearful noises may resound through your cabin, remain quietly here;
remain here in peace, my Osman. The pack will soon be let loose, and
your Mohammed, whom you call good, has been chosen by Fate to howl
with it, and make common cause with the bloodhounds. Do not speak,
Osman. Through blood must I march onward to my goal! There is no
other road. Farewell, and remain here."
He ascended hastily to the deck, called the soldiers together, spoke
to them for a long time in low, impressive tones, and issued his
orders. They listened attentively to his words, and then hastily
began to carry out his orders. They load their guns, try the locks,
and then repair to the port-holes on the lower deck, and hold
themselves in readiness to fire at the word of command.
There is to be a merry chase to-day. But after what game? Who has
seen it? No one knows as yet.
The boulouk bashi will give the signal, and when he says "Fire!"
they will fire, no matter at what or at whom. The command will be
given, and they will obey. It will be their first deed of arms,
their baptism of fire.
The hour has not yet come. Mohammed is standing on the deck above,
leaning against the mast, his arms crossed on his breast, looking
over toward the shores of Aboukir.
There all is gayety; the decorated boats dance merrily and rapidly
over the waves; the Mameluke beys are going by sea to Alexandria, to
take part in the festival of the newly-arrived admiral. There will
be warlike games and races; a grand banquet is prepared for the
guests; there will be music, dancing, and singing; altogether it
will be a most brilliant festival. The Mameluke beys esteem
themselves happy in having been invited by the capitan pacha to take
part in this glorious festival. To-morrow peace will be concluded
between them and the grand-sultan. To-morrow their lands will be
given them and the boundaries determined, but let to-day be a fete
day, a day of rejoicing.
Mourad's widow, Sitta Nefysseh, is standing at the entrance of her
tent, her countenance closely veiled, looking at the Mamelukes who
are going down to the shore to their boats. She sees that the Turks
stand aside, and that only the Mamelukes enter the boats.
"You are not going with us?" ask the astonished beys of their
Turkish friends. They shake their heads, and only step farther back
from the shore.
"No, ye proud beys, this honor is for you alone, you alone go with
the capitan, you alone are invited to attend the grand festival of
the English admiral, Lord Hutchinson. We remain here to await
longingly your return, in order that you may tell us of the
brilliant festival. We remain here!"
"They remain," repeated Sitta Nefysseh ; "they remain because death
goes with the others in their boats. O Osman Bardissi! why would you
not hearken to my words? I shall remain also, to await our dead."
In the large, richly-decorated boat, stood the capitan pacha, and
beside him the chief Mameluke beys; among them are Osman Bardissi,
the hero, the favorite of all the women, and Osman Tamboubji, now
one of the most distinguished of all the beys. These two,
especially, have been invited by the capitan to sail with him in his
boat, and while with him what have they to fear?
Sitta Nefysseh murmurs to herself:
"He takes them into his boat in order to deceive them. This is
surely to conceal some trickery, and when the boat lands at
Alexandria, the capitan pacha will not be with the Mameluke beys."
The Mamelukes have entered the boats joyously, and joyously they
sail out over the waves, toward the shores of Alexandria.
The day is beautiful, and the sunshine glitters upon the water;
laughter and jesting resound from every boat; but now, when Osman
Bardissi begins to sing a warlike song, all are silent and listen
attentively. He sings words with which he has often led his hosts
out to battle. And the rest, at the end of each verse of the
glorious old song, shout exultingly from boat to boat, and unite in
the joyous chorus:
"The bey lifts high his sword, and down it sweeps upon his proud
foe's head! Down swoops the bey, and raises high in air the severed
head, and, when he homeward rides, the head hangs dangling at his
saddle's side!"
"A beautiful, a glorious song!" exclaims the capitan, as it is
ended, and its last accords resound over the waters.
But what is this? A strong boat is approaching, the admiral's boat
of some strange vessel that has probably only just arrived in the
harbor. Signals are given in the boat, and a flag is waved. The flag
proclaims what the capitan expected. The young boulouk bashi, who
stands in the admiral's boat, holds up a folded paper. It is an
official letter, the large red seals that hang from it by silken
strings show it to be such. The capitan pacha calls the attention of
the Mameluke beys to the boat now rapidly approaching.
"Alas, the service leaves one no time, not even a short hour, for
recreation and merrymaking. See, here comes another messenger! What
can he want? The capitan pacha is, after all, a mere servant. See!
The messenger holds the paper higher and beckons to me. No, he shall
not break in upon the joy of our festival with his presence! This
beautiful boat shall not be desecrated with business matters! Come
closer, and I will get into your boat and read the letter."
"But after you have read it, capitan Pacha," says Osman Bardissi, in
a frank, kindly voice, "after you have read it and have disposed of
this annoying business matter, you will come back to our boat, will
you not? we will wait for you."
"Yes, wait for me! But it may, after all, be necessary for me to
return, to attend to some important affairs with my officials,
instead of enjoying myself with you. Therefore you had best go on,
my friends, and, if Allah permits me to join you in your festivities
to-day, I will hoist a signal, and you can stop for me and take me
in again." The capitan then steps into the strange boat. The two
proud bays see him take the paper from the hands of the stranger
boulouk bashi, break the seals, and read it.
With his eagle glance, Osman Bey Bardissi observes that the capitan
pacha's countenance becomes gradually clouded as he reads.
"He will not have time to return to us," says Tamboudji Bey, who
stands at his side. "It seems that grave intelligence has reached
him. Yes, it is so," the boat being rapidly rowed toward the
admiral's ship. "But look, Osman Bey! he cries, in alarm, as he
raises his arm and points to the departing boat, "look, there are
swords in the boat!"
"Yes, I see! Swords, Turkish swords! What are they in there for?"
"That is what I should like to know," replies the other, nervously
grasping the pistol in his girdle. "See, a ship is rapidly
approaching, and the capitan is steering toward it! But that is not
his ship! Where does it come from? What is it doing here?"
The countenance of the Mameluke chieftains is now threatening. They
observe the ship, rapidly approaching, with an eagle's glance. They
see the capitan ascend its side; they see the portholes filled with
glittering muskets.
"Treachery! This is treachery!" cries Bardissi.
And he turns toward the other boats, and cries out to them: "Grasp
your swords and prepare to defend yourselves. We are betrayed. The
capitan pacha has deceived us, and "--a ball whistling close by his
ear at this moment--" to your swords and pistols, my friends; the
enemy and treachery are upon us!"
The Turks are rowing rapidly down upon them in their boats, while
volleys of musketry are being discharged at them from the ship that
is approaching nearer and nearer, following the Turkish troops that
man the boats.
"Onward," cries Bardissi to his followers. "Onward! We may escape.
We may, if we make every effort, succeed in reaching Alexandria."
With the speed of the wind the boats sweep onward, and now turn into
the bay of Aboukir.
The Mamelukes all cry, "Treachery! treachery!" and every one sees
the three Turkish ships bearing down upon them from the front, while
the boats and the strange vessel are coming upon them from the rear.
From that direction comes the order, "Fire! fire!"
Death-shrieks resound everywhere among the boats. But the proud
Mamelukes are at least resolved to sell their lives dearly. They
reply from their boats to the shots. Now the enemy's boats are among
them, and a murderous but unequal conflict rages. The three men-of-
war send whole volleys into the boats of the Mamelukes.
Of what use to fire their pistols, how can they reload them? Of what
avail to draw their swords against the overwhelming foe?
They can only die, and die they must. The flower of the hero-beys
was gathered together in these boats, and is now being stamped under
foot--is perishing, the victim of infamous treachery.
Sitta Nefysseh looks on in horror from where she lies on the shore
of Aboukir. With outstretched arms she implores Allah for mercy, for
revenge; and now, as the volleys of artillery resound over the
waters, she cries in earnest, piercing tones:
"O Mourad, my husband! thou who art at Allah's side; thou who seest
this treachery, implore vengeance upon the enemy!"
Yes, she prays to Allah and the prophet for vengeance. But while she
prays, the blood of the Mamelukes is flowing in streams, saturating
the costly carpets in the boats, and beginning to color the
surrounding water.
A cry of rage resounds from Bardissi's lips. His friend Osman
Tamboudji has just been stretched out at his feet by a ball. He has
thrown away his pistol, and now grasps the hilt of his dagger, when
he is suddenly stricken down by a blow upon the head, dealt from
behind. The vessels have completely surrounded the Mamelukes; the
Turks on the ships jump down into the boats to assist the others,
and the work of slaughter is soon ended. All is now still. Those who
are not dead lie severely wounded in the boats. The Turks return to
their vessels, and the boulouk bashi orders the wounded to be
brought on board.
The order is executed; the dead are left in the boats, and the
wounded are carried on board.
They now lift up the wounded man who lies beside the dead bey, in
the large boat in which they had first seen the capitan standing
with the two beys.
"Bring him up the ladder," cries the boulouk bashi.
He is unconscious, and is bleeding from three wounds. But even in
this condition he still grasps his dagger so firmly that it cannot
be torn from his band, and as the soldiers attempt it he awakens and
opens his eyes.
"You are treacherous scoundrels, all of you! Osman Bey Bardissi
declares you to be such."
The boulouk bashi starts as he hears this name, steps forward and
gazes long and earnestly at the bey, whom he had once seen as a boy.
Must he meet him now in this condition? His gaze is fixed on him,
and he tries to recognize in his features the boy of former days.
"You are scoundrels!" cries, for the second time, the proud
chieftain. "Ye slaves of bloody tyranny--ye murderous, treacherous
villains--shame and disgrace upon you all! Before Allah's throne
will I accuse you, ye treacherous, slavish Turks."
With cries of rage they throw themselves upon him to strangle him.
But an arm burls them back with a giant's strength.
"Do you wish to murder those who can no longer defend themselves?
Back! The life of the wounded, of the vanquished enemy, is sacred."
Bardissi, who has again fallen back exhausted, looks up in
astonishment at the stranger who protected him, and was even angry
with his own soldiers on his account. How comes it that this
traitor's heart is touched?
Mohammed kneels down beside him.
"What is your name?" asks he, in low tones.
"Osman Bey Bardissi," replied the wounded man, and now, exhausted as
he was from loss of blood, a proud smile flittered over his handsome
countenance. "Not knowing me, you must be a stranger in Egypt,"
added he.
"Yes, I am a stranger in Egypt, and this accounts for my not knowing
you. Yet, it seems to me that we once met; were you not once on the
shores of the bay of Sta. Marmora?"
"Yes, I was once there!"
"Do you recollect meeting a boy there? You spoke to him of your
proud future."
"I remember," murmured the bey.
"And you spoke proud, contemptuous words to this boy. Do you still
remember his name?"
"I do; he was called Mohammed Ali, and I told him my name, Osman
Bey. Were you the boy?"
"I was, and there we first met, and now we meet again. I regret,
Osman Bey, that we meet as enemies."
Osman Bey Bardissi shook his head slowly. "We were enemies, Mohammed
Ali; yet, if Allah permits me to live, you shall soon learn that you
have found a friend. I well know that I owe you my life, and I shall
be grateful while life lasts."
He ceased speaking, and again lost consciousness.
Mohammed beckoned to one of the soldiers to approach. "Carry this
man to my cabin, and let no one dare to touch him with a rude hand.
He is my prisoner."
CHAPTER VII
RESTITUTION.
"Our Mamelukes have been treacherously slaughtered, murdered! They
have been lured out upon the water near Aboukir in their boats, and
then fired upon by murderous huntsmen as though they were a flock of
pigeons. If you are an honest and brave man, general, proved by
mercifully espousing the cause of those who were lured to
destruction in your name--yes, in your name, General Hutchinson--
yes, it devolves upon you, and your honor requires that you compel
them, to yield up the wounded and the dead."
Thus lamented Sitta Nefysseh as she knelt before General Hutchinson,
her arms extended in wild entreaty. She had come over to Alexandria
from Aboukir, and she it was who first brought the intelligence of
the fearful event that had occurred, who first announced to the
English general that the beys had fallen victims to infamous
treachery.
The general, incensed at this shameful abuse of confidence,
immediately dispatched two of his adjutants to the capitan pacha, to
demand an explanation and call him to account for the outrage.
The pacha was, however, not to be found. "They did not know where he
had gone;" was the reply; "but Lord Hutchinson's message should be
conveyed to him as soon as possible, and he would certainly send
some one to the general who would give satisfactory explanations of
the affair."
Soon afterward a boat came to shore, and the boulouk bashi, Mohammed
Ali, demanded, in the name of the capitan pacha, to be conducted to
the presence of the English general. With an air of profound
deference and humility, he delivered the message of the capitan
pacha, and expressed his own regret of the fearful event that had
occurred.
"It was a misunderstanding. I myself was to blame for it, and bow in
humility before your just anger! The capitan pacha had commanded me
to arrest the rebellious Mameluke beys, and bring them on board the
admiral's ship, in order that they might be conveyed to Stamboul.
His orders were, that no resistance should be tolerated, and that
severe measures should be adopted at the first manifestation of
violence on their part. Sir, such manifestations were not wanting,
and I had no sooner come near the boats which contained the
rebellious Mameluke beys, when they grasped their arms, and
threatened us with wild gestures. We fought for life, general, not
knowing that our lives were, in your estimation, as nothing to those
mighty, renowned Mameluke beys. We fought for our lives, as they did
theirs; and, if the Mamelukes were vanquished in this conflict, it
was, it seems to me, Allah's will. Yet, I beg pardon for what has
happened, and repeat, in the name of the capitan pacha, it was a
misunderstanding--oh, sir, a deplorable misunderstanding!"
The general shrugged his shoulders, and glanced angrily at the
quiet, defiant countenance of the young officer.
"A very welcome misunderstanding it seems to have been to all of
you. A misunderstanding you call it; and did you not know that I,
Lord Hutchinson, had pledged my word to the Mameluke beys that their
lives should not be endangered? Did you not know that they had come
tome to inquire whether they could safely trust the Turks, and that
I, in my blindness, had said to them: 'You can safely trust them;
they are men of honor, and they have solemnly pledged their word for
your security?' You have broken the holy law of your prophet, of
hospitality, and have betrayed those to whom you had extended the
hand of friendship."
"Not so, general, by Allah! Of such a crime I could not be guilty,"
replied Mohammed, quietly. "I broke no bread, and exchanged no vows
of friendship, with the Mamelukes. I have only just arrived from a
distant land, and know nothing of your enmities or friendships. My
orders were, to arrest the Mamelukes, and bring them fettered to the
admiral's ship. If I misunderstood the order, I was wrong, but no
such crime burdens my soul, and I cannot be justly accused of broken
faith or treachery. I have nothing more to say. I submit humbly to
your displeasure, and can only repeat that I deplore the
misunderstanding."
"Your quiet, defiant bearing is, it seems to me, inconsistent with
your words. I deplore this treachery, and deplore it doubly, because
my assurances lulled the beys into a sense of security. But I tell
you I will have justice, satisfaction for this outrage; I will call
you all to account. Go to your master and say to him, in my name,
that his treatment of the Mameluke beys has been treacherous."
"Pardon me," replied the boulouk bashi, composedly, "but perhaps
your excellency does not know what commands respecting these
Mameluke beys were given the capitan pacha by his master, by the
Sublime Porte."
"I read in your countenance what the sultan's intentions and
commands were, and see it in what has occurred. It is his purpose to
destroy the Mamelukes, whom he has entrapped with flattering words
and loving promises. But it shall not be done while I am here. I
demand justice and satisfaction for myself. Let the world pronounce
you Turks liars and traitors, but the same shall not be said of me
and my people! I have pledged my word and the honor of England for
the safety of the Mamelukes; and, though I cannot recall the dead to
life, I will at least care for the living. Go to your master and
tell him this: `Lord Hutchinson demands that all the captured
Mameluke beys be immediately brought to the shore and placed under
his protection. Lord Hutchinson insists that they be at once set at
liberty, and that they shall not be regarded as prisoners of the
grand-sultan."'
"Excellency, it will be very difficult to comply with your demands,"
replied Mohammed. "An alternative has just been offered the
prisoners. I was present, and can vouch for it--they were to choose
between death by the sword and submission. Not one of the beys,
however, chose to die rather than submit. They swore on the holy
Koran than they would remain the prisoners of the Turks, and make no
effort to have themselves demanded back by the English, and, as they
have nevertheless done so, and sent to you, they have broken their
holy oath."
"They have not done so," replied Lord Hutchinson. "I heard of this
infamous treachery by other means; others informed me of what has
occurred. I am, therefore, entirely justified in making my demand;
moreover, the oath obtained from them by the threat of death is
valueless. I insist that the Mamelukes who are still alive be
delivered over to me, and the dead also, in order that I may count
them and assure myself that none have been kept back as prisoners.
Go, and tell your master this, and say to him that a refusal on his
part will be equivalent to a declaration of war by England. My ships
lie at anchor in the harbor of Alexandria awaiting his decision, and
they are ready for war. Tell this to the capitan pacha."
With a respectful inclination of the head Mohammed withdrew, and,
returning to his boat, was rapidly conveyed on board the admiral's
ship, where the capitan pacha awaited him.
The latter listened attentively to the report of the boulouk bashi,
and inclined his head graciously when told that he had taken the
sole responsibility upon himself, and had attributed the much-to-be-
regretted-occurrence to a misunderstanding.
"You did well," said the capitan pacha. "Why should we not appear to
regret this deed of bloodshed, now that it is accomplished? Why not
deplore that which is irrevocable? Death holds fast to its victims.
The living, we must, however, deliver over to the stormy Englishman,
as I have no desire to take upon myself the responsibility of a war
with England. Moreover, I shall be well pleased to leave this place.
My work is done. Let the newly appointed viceroy see what he can do
with these Mamelukes. Egypt is dripping with blood, and the
atmosphere of this land is freighted with the scent of corpses. I
can no longer endure it, and am about to return to beautiful, sunny
Stamboul. Let my last deed be to comply with the demand of this
haughty Englishman. Have the wounded put into the boats, Bim Bashi
Mohammed Ali; you understand me--I call you bim bashi. You may
inform your friend, Bim Bashi Osman, that his request is granted;
you will take his place, and it rests with you to make it the
stepping-stone to future greatness. I believe such will be the case,
for I can read your soul in your eyes; and this one thing, it seems
to me, you still have to learn: to keep your eyes from betraying
your thoughts, Remember that this is essential to success. And now,
you may have the prisoners conveyed to the shore. Lord Hutchinson
shall count the living, and the dead, too; not one of his favorites
shall be withheld! When this is done, bim bashi, return to the ship
on which you came. Are the soldiers disembarked?"
"Yes, excellency, and already, I believe, on the march to Cairo."
"It is well," said the pacha; "let them figure at the grand entrance
of the viceroy into Cairo. I will intrust you with a message to his
highness, and will recommend you to him as a useful man. Cousrouf
Pacha has need of such men."
Mohammed started at the mention of this name, but quickly recovered
his composure, and bowed his head in gratitude.
"You make me happy, indeed! You will send me to Cousrouf Pacha. I
thank you, for it has long been my most ardent wish to be in his
service."
"It has long been your wish!" said the capitan pacha, in surprise.
"I thought you had only been here a short time?"
"True, excellency, yet I have heard much of the great Cousrouf Pacha
in my distant home, and to serve him was my most ardent wish. I
swear, capitan pacha, that I will serve him as my heart prompts."
"But then it depends on what your heart prompts," said the pacha,
casting a long, searching glance at the pale countenance of the
young bim bashi. "The tone in which you say this has a strange ring,
and sounds almost like a threat! Yet, deal with his highness,
Cousrouf Pacha, as you think proper, and serve him as your heart
prompts. I will recommend you to him. We are good friends, the
viceroy and I, very good friends, and I have no doubt it will sadden
him to see me escape out of this confusion, which will require bold
and fearless management at his hands. I go to Stamboul, you go to
Cousrouf Pacha to serve him--to serve him as your heart prompts, you
say?"
"Yes, excellency, as my heart prompts, in humility and devotion."
"Now you may go; I will furnish you with a written testimonial, and
warmly recommend you to the viceroy, as I have promised."
He dismissed the young bim bashi with a gracious inclination of the
head, and the latter returned to his ship to see that the prisoners
were conveyed to the shore. He walked beside Osman Bey Bardissi as
he was being carried down on a stretcher to a boat, by four
soldiers, speaking kind, consoling words to the wounded man, and
expressing the hope that Allah, in his mercy, would soon restore him
to health, as his injuries were light.
Bardissi gazed at him fixedly with his dark, glittering eyes. "And
is it then really true, Mohammed Ali--are we to be conveyed to the
shore, and set at liberty? Are we not to die?"
"It is true. Lord Hutchinson demands that you be set at liberty. The
capitan has consented, and you are now to be conveyed to the shore."
"Is it not a new trap set for us? Will the bottom of our boats not
open, and let us sink down into the sea?"
"You are to be delivered up to the Englishman," replied Mohammed
Ali, quietly.
"I do not trust the word of the capitan pacha," said Bardissi,
shaking his head. "Give me your word, Mohammed Ali, that we shall be
safely conveyed to the shore--I will believe you. Tell me, truly,
shall we not be cast into the sea, or assassinated before we reach
the land?"
"No, Osman Bey Bardissi, no! You will land safely, and if it be
Allah's will, a day will come when Mohammed Ali will extend his hand
to you and call you his friend. Who knows? Allah's sun shines
everywhere. Men call themselves friends to-day, who but yesterday
were enemies; and the friends of to-day may to-morrow be enemies.
Allah's will alone decides our destiny!"
"To-day you call yourself my enemy," said Bardissi, "but I already
call you my friend! You have preserved my life, and, by Allah,
Bardissi swears that you are henceforth his friend! If you should
ever need a friend, call Bardissi, the Mameluke bey, and he will
hear your call wherever he may be, if not above with Allah. And now,
farewell!"
"Farewell, and may Allah restore you to health!" said Mohammed, in a
low voice. "I am thinking of the hour when we two foolish boys first
met, and tried to outdo each other in vain and frivolous words. Men
speak little, but think much, and prepare for the future. Allah's
blessing attend you!"
Mohammed returned to the deck of the ship, and looked down at the
boats that were now steering with their bleeding, groaning burden
toward the shore. Lord Hutchinson, who had ordered everything to be
held in readiness for immediate conflict should his demand not be
complied with, stood on the shore with his staff, awaiting the
arrival of the boats. His eyes filled with tears as he saw them
approach. "Forgive me, poor, bleeding victims of treachery, for
having allowed myself to be deceived by flatteries and promises!"
The wounded bowed their heads, and looked at him almost
compassionately.
"It is well that there are men who can still be deceived, who still
have faith in the word and honor of men. We will trust them no more,
and will have vengeance for this deed of treachery, bloody vengeance
on him who is about to enter our holy city as king. Our curse
accompany him to the holy mosque, and, wherever he may go, may it
rest beside him on his couch in the citadel! Cairo, the holy, the
beloved, is ours. We will fight him who calls himself viceroy, and
contend with him for every inch of land. And you, brave Englishmen,
will help us in our struggle, will you not?"
Lord Hutchinson shook his head.
"No, Osman Bey Bardissi! God be praised, we are about to leave here!
my king and my duty call me away, and I am pleased that it is so.
Continue your conflict with the Turks, and I confess I wish you
success in your struggle. I am glad that I shall no longer be
compelled to breathe this air, polluted with treachery! Your rescue
is my last act here. Now, let us go and see whether any of you are
missing. They shall bring you all here; I swear it by my king; I
will have you all, and not one shall be withheld!"
Three of the number who had gone out in the boats in the morning
were missing.
"These three must be brought here!"
This was the import of Lord Hutchinson's message to the capitan
pacha; and the latter, all complacency and obedience, now that the
bloody work was done, sent out divers to look for the dead in the
sea. They were recovered, and humbly deposited at the feet of the
Englishman.
While Lord Hutchinson and Sitta Nefysseh returned with the wounded
to Alexandria, where the wives of the disabled and dead Mamelukes
were weeping and lamenting, Mohammed Ali returned to the ship. The
soldiers were nearly all disembarked; silence reigned in the ship,
and its blood-stained deck alone bore evidence of the murderous deed
that had been done.
Mohammed caused these stains to be hastily removed; he well knew
that these traces of bloody treachery would be viewed by the
delicate and sensitive Osman with horror.
He then went down into the cabin to his friend. Osman received him
with outstretched arms, gazing at him sadly but tenderly.
"I have done as you requested, Mohammed, and have not left my cabin,
though alarmed by the cries and tumult above me. I knew my Mohammed
had bloody work to do. I was sorry for you, and yet I knew that you
could not prevent it."
"No, I could not prevent it," said Mohammed, gloomily; "and yet,
Osman, my soul shudders when I think of it. I have received to-day
the baptism of my new existence, and it is no longer the Mohammed
you loved who stands before you. I have to-day been compelled to
lend a helping hand to treachery, but it was Allah's will, and the
soldier must obey his superior's commands. I obeyed, Osman, nothing
more. The curse of this evil deed does not fall on me. Though my
hand is blood-stained, it is yet innocent."
"You have undergone a fearful baptism," murmured Osman, shuddering.
"I read it in your pale countenance, my Mohammed--a fearful baptism.
You must, however, march on boldly in your career. Do you now
understand why Osman was so anxious to accept the position of
captain of the troops? Do you now understand why I took this step,
and do you now comprehend my love and friendship, Mohammed?"
"I understand it all, and I bless you, my Osman, creator of my new
existence! I thank you, Osman; and when after long years the fame of
your Mohammed's deeds shall reach your ear, when my mother's dream
is fulfilled, and I am crowned and seated on a throne that stands on
the summit of a palace, then remember, my Osman, that you are the
creator of my fortune, and that Mohammed Ali blesses his friend with
every breath. I swear eternal love and friendship for you, my Osman,
and I swear, too, that the thought of you shall make me mild and
humane toward my enemies."
"Even when you stand before your enemy, Cousrouf Pacha, Mohammed?"
asked Osman.
"Why do you name him at such a time? " murmured Mohammed, with a
slight shudder. "Do you know that I am to be sent to him? The
capitan pacha perhaps observed, by my manner and voice, that I also
do not love Cousrouf Pacha, whom he hates; he warmly recommends me
to him, and I am to go to him to serve him."
"And will you enter his service?" asked Osman.
"I will do so," replied Mohammed; "and I have sworn that I will
serve the Viceroy of Egypt as my heart prompts."
Both were still for a while, and seemed disinclined to break the
silence.
"You will serve him as your heart prompts," said Osman, in a low
voice. "In this case, do you think Cousrouf Pacha will long remain
great and mighty in Cairo?"
Mohammed smiled faintly.
"Osman, I am almost disposed to be afraid of you. Your question
tells me that you read my most secret thoughts. Let your question
remain unanswered for the present. I will communicate with you from
time to time, Osman, and send you loving messages, you may rest
assured. I have one request to make still: when you return home to
Cavalla, greet the wife that you gave me, and also greet and kiss my
children. And then, Osman, if you are able, go down to the cliffs,
take up a stone from the shore and throw it into the sea, and when
the circles form around the place where it went down, and the waves
curl upon the shore, say this: 'Mohammed greets you, Masa, and he
begins the work of holy vengeance! Rest quietly in your grave, Masa;
Mohammed Ali is keeping watch for you and for himself; the work of
vengeance is begun!'"
CHAPTER VIII
THE VICEROY OF EGYPT.
To-day all Cairo is in a state of joyous excitement. The days of
want and care have passed--who now remembers the terrors of
yesterday? Who still remembers the days when the Frank ruled here,
when the terrible general made the people bow their heads beneath
the yoke? Yes, on this same square of the Esbekieh, have they lain
in the dust before the mighty general who stood before them a giant,
though small in stature. Who still thinks of the misery and disgrace
of those days? Forgotten! all forgotten! Two years are a long period
for the remembrance of a people; and two years have passed since
Bonaparte departed, and more than a year has elapsed since the last
of the Franks withdrew from Egypt.
"All hail the new viceroy sent us by our master in Stamboul! he will
make us happy, and relieve us of the unending struggles of the
Mameluke beys! Long live Cousrouf Pacha, our new viceroy!"
These cries rend the air as the surging crowds make their way toward
Boulak, from which place Cousrouf Pacha is to make his grand
entrance into the holy city. All the authorities have assembled
there to participate in the celebration; there are the ulemas in
their long caftans, and the sheiks in their green robes, the
crescent embroidered on their turbans in token of their dignity;
there are also the generals of the Turkish and English regiments,
the latter only remaining in Cairo to take part in the festivities
of the viceroy's entrance. And now the new ruler approaches in his
splendor. The Nile, broad as it is at Boulak, is nevertheless
covered with boats, in which the viceroy is approaching with his
numerous and glittering suite. He stands on the deck of a large
boat, surrounded by a group of distinguished Turks and Englishmen;
all the consuls of the friendly powers are with him, and this seems
to the shouting populace a guarantee of returning peace.
The boat is brought alongside the bridge of boats that connects
Boulak with the opposite shore. As Cousrouf Pacha now steps out upon
the bridge covered with costly carpets and strewed with flowers,
thousands of voices from both shores hail the viceroy as their
deliverer with shouts of joy. The pacha bows a kindly greeting in
every direction, and then casts a glance toward the horizon, where,
in the purple distance, the pyramids stand out, sharply defined
against the sky. He bows his head still more profoundly, and
remembers that he is now the successor of the great Pharaohs who
erected these monuments to themselves.
"I, too, will erect such a monument. After thousands of years the
world shall still speak of me--of the Viceroy, perhaps of the King,
of Egypt."
Such are his thoughts as be walks across the bridge to the carriage
of state in which he is to make his entrance. The ulemas receive
him. "Long live the ambassador of the prophet! Long live the blessed
of Allah!" resound from the lips of the thousands assembled upon the
shore and in the streets of the city.
How radiant is Cousrouf Pacha's countenance! How little the viceroy
of to-day resembles the exiled pacha of the past, during his weary
sojourn in Cavalla, with nothing to enliven him but his little
struggle with the boy Mohammed and his harem! A land is now at his
feet. Onward the procession moves through the crowds that throng the
streets; they have now turned into the Muskj Street--the beautiful
street, the pride of the inhabitants, with its old-fashioned, lofty
houses. Onward the procession moves toward the citadel. There, in
the beautiful palace, will the viceroy be enthroned. "Long live our
new ruler! Long live our viceroy!" These are the cries that greet
him throughout his entire march to the citadel; and these cries
still rend the air long after Cousrouf Pacha has entered the palace,
at whose gates he had been received by the grand dignitaries of the
land. He greeted them all in brief but kindly terms, and then
retired to the private apartments of his palace.
He now reclines on his cushions, thinking of his past and of his
future. A glad smile lights up his countenance. The way was long and
weary, but its obstacles have now been overcome. Once he was a
slave, but he had sworn to struggle for a great aim. He has kept his
oath. Here he is the first, the ruler. Who knows but he may yet
completely cast off the burden of dependence, and become absolutely
free? Every thing rests on the acquisition of good and faithful
friends and servants, and he will acquire such. It is so easy for
the great to acquire friends! Is not the capitan pacha his friend?
Does he not owe all that he is to him? He has elevated him from the
dust, and made him commander of the army with which he has come over
from Turkey. Yes, he is a true and devoted friend, and he will
easily find others. His power will become great--great as all Egypt.
He rises, calls one of the Nubian slaves, and bids him show him the
way to the walls of the citadel.
The slave opens a secret door that leads into a narrow passage and
upon the outer wall of the citadel. Motioning to the slave to remain
in the passage, Cousrouf steps out, and then stands still,
astonished at the splendid spectacle that lies before him. Spread
out at his feet lies the holy Mazr, with all its minarets and
towers. Farther on lies a whole city of cupolas--these are the
graves of the caliphs; they rear their heads proudly aloft in the
sunlight, congratulating the new ruler on his magnificence; but also
reminding him of the perishable nature of all earthly glory--the
saying of a certain wise man "Thou first and mightiest of mortals,
be thankful that thou art alive!"
"I thank thee, Allah, that I am alive, and I bow down in humility
before thee!" murmurs Cousrouf, reverently. He then again looks out
with delight upon the landscape that lies before him. There, in a
wide curve, winds the river Nile like a silver ribbon, innumerable
decorated boats and barks dancing upon its surface. Here all is life
and animation, beyond the Nile reigns a solemn stillness; for a
certain distance from the river bank stand stately palm-trees, and
then suddenly, sharply defined beside the green fields, begins the
yellow sand. That is the desert--that is the mysterious theatre of
so many adventures throughout the ages, the receptacle of so much
hidden wealth, the great burying-ground of the unknown dead. There,
on the horizon, where the yellow sand and the blue sky meet, stand
the pyramids of Gheezeh, and farther on, in the purple distance, the
pyramids of Sakkara.
"A world lies at my feet, and I am the ruler of this world. I have
attained my aim," says he to himself. "All is fulfilled; but one
thing is left to wish for. O Allah, grant me still many years in
which to enjoy this magnificence!"
Once more he glances around at the beautiful landscape before him,
and then, conducted by the slave, returns to his private apartments.
He lies on his cushions, listening to the shouts of the delighted
multitude without.
Suddenly the curtain that covers the doorway is noiselessly
withdrawn, and a slave announces that a messenger from the capitan
pacha, accompanied by a bim bashi, stands in the antechamber,
awaiting his pleasure.
"What is the messenger's name?" asks Cousrouf, wearily.
"Hassan Aga, master, bim bashi of the capitan pacha."
"And his favorite," murmurs Cousrouf to himself. "Let Hassan Aga
enter."
At the slave's call the messenger enters, bows his head to the
ground, and hands his master's letter to the viceroy.
"Do you know its contents?" asks Cousrouf, slowly opening the
letter.
"Yes, highness. It is a farewell letter from my master, who leaves
to-morrow for Stamboul."
For an instant a smile glides over Cousrouf's countenance; but then
it assumes a sad expression. "The capitan pacha is about to depart--
to leave me."
"He wishes to leave to you alone the honor of having laid subjugated
Egypt at the feet of his master the grand-sultan, in Stamboul. He
has done what lay in his power. The most dangerous Mamelukes have
fallen beneath his blows. Shall I narrate to your highness how it
was done?"
Cousrouf signifies his assent. Hassan hastily relates the bloody
story of the assassination of the Mamelukes in the roadstead of
Aboukir, Cousrouf listening with the greatest attention. "The
capitan pacha has erected a bloody but a great monument to himself,"
says be, when Hassan has finished his narrative. "Yet it is
questionable whether I shall be benefited by it. It would, perhaps,
have been wiser to reconcile ourselves with the Mamelukes, than to
excite them to new anger."
"Highness, reconciliation with the Mamelukes is impossible," replies
Hassan. "The capitan pacha, who has ever been faithful in your
service, wishes to give you a final proof of his friendship."
"And in what does this proof consist?" asks Cousrouf.
"He sends your highness a hero who has the determination to do all
things, and the capacity to do all he determines. He gave evidence
of his courage and address at Aboukir. The capitan pacha can leave
you no better token of his friendship than this young hero, who is
entirely devoted to you. May I present this last best gift of the
capitan pacha; may I present to your highness the young bim bashi?"
The pacha nods his assent, and Hassan noiselessly withdraws,
returning in a few moments, accompanied by the young bim bashi, so
warmly recommended to the viceroy. Cousrouf Pacha wearily raises his
head and casts a glance of indifference at the tall figure of the
bim bashi; but as his glance falls on the young man's countenance,
he starts. It seems, to him that he has seen those eagle eyes
before. He hastily casts his eyes down, and then looks up again at
the bim bashi, who holds his head proudly erect, awaiting the
viceroy's address.
"What is your name, bim bashi? Where do you come from?" asks
Cousrouf, after along pause.
The bim bashi advances a step, and, looking steadily in the
viceroy's countenance, bows profoundly. "My name is Mohammed Ali,
and I come from Cavalla."
"Cavalla!" repeats Cousrouf, with a start. Now he remembers that he
has sometimes seen these eyes before him in sleepless nights. They
have impressed themselves deeply into his heart with their fearful
glances. The haughty pacha had never reproached himself for killing
the slave Masa--that was his right; he acted according to law when
he punished the runaway slave by death--but it was cruel to compel
the man who loved her to witness her death. Cousrouf had felt this
at the time, and that was why these eyes had penetrated his heart
like daggers' points. But that was long ago, and these eyes are now
very different. They no longer glitter with curses; they now sparkle
with animation, energy, and courage, only.
"You come from Cavalla," says he, after a pause, "and your name is
Mohammed Ali? It seems to me that once, when I sojourned for a time
at Cavalla, I also knew a Mohammed Ali, a daring young lad, the
friend of Osman, with whose father I resided; I had appointed Osman
bim bashi of the soldiers he was to bring over to me, and I also
permitted him to select young Mohammed Ali as his boulouk bashi. Yet
Osman has not come, nor do you appear to be the Mohammed Ali I then
knew."
"Pardon me, highness," said Mohammed Ali, with a slight smile, for
he well understood the secret meaning of this question, "pardon me,
highness, I am this Mohammed, and yet another. The first was a bold,
insolent lad, who dared to defy your authority and refused to bow
his head in humility before your highness. He who now stands before
you, however, is your devoted servant, who brings you greetings from
his friend Osman. He is deeply touched by your graciousness, and,
hoping for a continuance of your favor, he undertook to do your
bidding. But alas! the will of man is often frustrated by bodily
weakness. It was thus with my friend Osman. The first day of the
conflict at Aboukir prostrated him so completely that he was
compelled to return home to Cavalla, and the capitan graciously
granted his request and placed me in his position. Yet I lay my new
dignity at your feet; all that I am I wish to receive at your
hands."
Cousrouf had regarded him fixedly while he spoke, and had listened
attentively to his words and voice. He was satisfied with him. "Yes,
Mohammed, you are right," said Cousrouf; "there is nothing of the
fierce boy of those days in you now. Your voice is flattering, and
your words well chosen and devoted, and Cousrouf will attach you to
himself through gratitude. He will cherish you, and make of you a
devoted servant. You say, you lay your dignity of bim bashi at my
feet?"
"Yes, highness, I lay all at your feet; and all that I am I wish to
receive at your hands."
"Well, then, if your destiny rests with me, I must promote the bim
bashi to a higher dignity. From this moment the bim bashi is the
sarechsme, the general of the Albanian troops. You are their
countryman, and you shall be their leader."
"O highness, how great is your generosity!" exclaims Mohammed, his
countenance beaming with joy.
Cousrouf had observed him closely, and the young man's delight
showed him that he had acquired in Mohammed a true and devoted
friend, and he will have great need of such friends in the impending
struggles to uphold his power, which the course pursued by his
friend the capitan pacha will have made inevitable. The bloody
massacre at Aboukir, which the capitan claims as a friendly service
rendered him, has, he well knows, made him many passionate and
irreconcilable enemies. Yes, he needs true friends, and Mohammed
shall be chained to his service through gratitude.
Mohammed expresses his gratitude and devotion in such eloquent terms
that Cousrouf's heart is touched, and he feels impelled to address
some kindly words to the new sarechsme. He dismisses Hassan Aga with
friendly greetings to the capitan pacha, and motioned to the
sarechsme to remain. Cousrouf walks thoughtfully to and fro in the
room for a time, his gold-embroidered caftan trailing on the carpet
behind him, and the crescent on his turban glittering in the
sunlight. Mohammed raises his eyes for an instant, and sees the
figure sweep past him like a brilliant meteor. Quickly he casts down
his eyes again, that his soul's inmost thoughts may not be betrayed,
and least of all to the viceroy. No one but Allah hears the oath
that now resounds in his soul, as he stands in an humble attitude at
the door, waiting to be addressed. "I have sworn vengeance, and I
will keep my oath. Vengeance for Masa; vengeance for the torments I
have endured. My head is now bowed in humility before you, yet I
swear to repay you for the evil you have done me; not by killing
you, but by torturing your soul. We are alone, without witnesses; it
were an easy thing to slay you. The door stands open, and I could
flee before the deed could be known. But death is no revenge for
years of torture. You shall live, and live in agony and pain. Thus
will Mohammed Ali be avenged!"
In his heart he swears this oath. His lips do not quiver; no feature
of his countenance betrays what is passing within. Cousrouf stands
still before him, and lays his hand on Mohammed's shoulder. "Look at
me, Mohammed!"
The latter looks up, and the eyes of both are firmly fixed on each
other. The young general divines Cousrouf's thoughts, but the pacha
does not divine Mohammed's.
"You said that the Mohammed of the days when I resided in Cavalla is
dead. Is it true?"
"Yes, highness, it is true. He is dead, or he has at least
transformed himself into a better man. Yet, highness, he suffered
much before he could accomplish this transformation."
"That I can readily believe," says Cousrouf, in low tones. "I have
often regretted having caused you this misery. Yet you must have
become satisfied yourself, young man, that I could not do otherwise.
I acted in accordance with the law."
"You only acted in accordance with the law," replies Mohammed, in a
low voice. "The law ordains that the faithless runaway be punished,
and also he with whom she has fled. The captured slave was killed,
and it seems to me it was an act of clemency to permit him who loved
her to witness her execution without being able to help her. Yes, an
act of great clemency. You might have punished me more severely."
Again Cousrouf gazes into his countenance searchingly. The tone of
his voice is mild and submissive, yet his words bear stings.
"I should think, Mohammed, that death itself were preferable to the
punishment of being compelled to witness the execution of the
beloved without being able to help her. In the years that have since
passed, I have often thought that it was cruel, and wished I had not
dealt so harshly with you. Does it suffice that I confess this to
you? Will you say this to the other--the dead and transformed--and
will it console him?"
"O master, what magnanimity!" exclaims Mohammed.
"You are generous enough to confess that you feel regret at having
done justice to that slave?"
"I was passionate, and you had excited my wrath," replies the pacha,
gently inclining his head.
"Not I, highness," says Mohammed, smiling. "Not I, the sarechsme,
but that wild, insolent boy, Mohammed, of whom no trace now remains.
He is buried in the sea, at the place where the waves closed over
Masa. Yet, if that Mohammed still lived and heard what you say, he
would bow down in the dust before the great man who condescends to
confess that he regrets what he has done. However, should I see that
Mohammed, I will tell him of this never-to-be-forgotten
magnanimity."
"I will give you a souvenir of this hour," says Cousrouf, gently. "I
am so happy myself to-day that I desire to see the happy only about
me. You are now a general. I should like to see you worthily fitted
out for your new dignity. Have you a steed suitable to your rank?"
"I am poor, highness, and have nothing but the salary which your
highness will bestow on me."
"Above all, you must have a good horse. I have received from the
grand-sultan, in Stamboul, in honor of my entrance into Cairo, four
beautiful horses. I make you a present of one of them. Go down to
the stables; they shall be shown you, and you shall select the one
that pleases you best. Be still! no word of thanks! Show your
gratitude by serving me faithfully. Are you already provided with a
dwelling?"
"No, highness. The bim bashi had but just arrived with Hassan Aga
from Alexandria, and has as yet had no time to look after a
dwelling."
"A house shall be prepared for you," said the pacha; "I will see to
this myself. Remain in my palace to-day; tomorrow you shall have a
house of your own. Now go and select the best of the horses. I hope
you are a connoisseur, and will easily pick out the best one; it
shall be delivered to you completely equipped." He calls a slave who
stood waiting without, and commands him to conduct the sarechsme to
the courtyard, and order the horses to be led before him.
Mohammed, his head bowed down in profound reverence, withdraws to
the door, walking backward. Cousrouf follows him with his eyes until
the door has closed behind him, and then a smile glides over his
countenance.
"This man is won over to my interests. He is right; he is
transformed, body and soul, and he is mine. And truly such a friend
is a valuable possession."
Mohammed descends with the slave to the court-yard. The latter
hastily summons the equerry, and delivers his master's message. The
beautiful horses, with their splendid trappings, are now led before
Mohammed. The new sarechsme selects the handsomest and best; he
wishes to show the viceroy that he can judge of the beauty and fire
of a horse. Mohammed then retires to the rooms set apart for him in
a wing of the palace. When left alone, his grave countenance
relaxes, and a triumphant smile plays about his lips.
"The work is begun," murmurs he to himself. "The viceroy has himself
called his enemy to his side. He thinks, with his favor and
flattery, to make me forget what I have endured. He shall learn that
Mohammed Ali never forgives. You are lost, Cousrouf, for you
slumber, while I watch and will take advantage of your slumber.
Beware, Cousrouf, beware! I will not be your murderer, you shall
live, but I will humble you; you shall sink down in the dust before
me! Let that be the revenge for Masa, my white dove, and for
myself!"
CHAPTER IX
SITTA NEFYSSEH.
She was reposing in her garden-kiosk. She had ordered her female
slaves to place themselves in the rear of some rose-bushes in the
background, and make sweet harmony with their cymbals and clarinets.
She wished to be left alone with her thoughts. She lay reclining at
full length on her silver-embroidered silken cushions. The white
silk dress, inworked with crimson roses, enfolded her closely,
displaying the contour of her graceful form. The sunlight pierced
the airy latticework of the kiosk, around which clustered roses and
orange-blossoms, and shed a soft light over her charming
countenance. The veil, which Sitta Nefysseh only wears when she goes
into the streets or meets strangers in her house, is laid aside.
Beautiful is Sitta Nefysseh, more beautiful than a young girl, than
the unblown rose, radiant with loveliness and dignity. "Queen of the
Roses," thus is she called by all Cairo.
Who does not know her--who has not heard of her, of the Rose of
Cairo, of the wife of the great Mourad Bey, the Mameluke chieftain?
Even the Franks bowed humbly before her grace and dignity, and the
scha-er sings and relates, on the street-corners, of the French
general, Kleber, who loved Mourad's beautiful wife, and who often,
in the stillness of the evening, haunted the vicinity of his palace,
awaiting, perhaps, an opportunity to invade the harem in which the
Rose of Cairo dwelt. And in his songs he also intimates that the
dagger-stroke which lay the general low near the palace, was dealt
at the instigation of the jealous bey.
Who does not know Sitta Nefysseh, the benefactress of the poor, the
proud heroine who fought at her husband's side, who shared with
Mourad the dangers of war, a heroine in battle, a gentle, modest
woman in the harem?
All is still about her. The waters of the fountains near the kiosk
murmur gently as they fall in the basins beneath, as if to lull the
beautiful woman to rest with their music, and now the soft music
from behind the rose-bushes is also wafted over, to the kiosk.
The slaves accompany the instruments with their voices.
What are they singing? What song is this that exults and is yet
filled with sadness? whose strains are so passionate, so lamenting,
so longing?
Sitta Nefysseh well knows what they are; although the words are
inaudible, yet she knows them, knows the sad love-song "of her whom
he loved, of him who slew her." The song is a familiar one. But why
does it excite such emotion in her heart, why do her large black
eyes fill with tears? She would permit no one to see these tears,
she would quickly brush them from her sparkling eyes with her hand,
white as the lily, if the eye of any human being could now behold
her.
But no one sees her--Sitta Nefysseh is alone.
At least she thinks so. The pair of black eyes that peer out from
behind the shrubbery and flowers near the garden-wall, she does not
see, and yet these eyes are fixed with such anguish and longing,
with such passionate ardor, on the lovely woman who lies there
dreamily on her cushions.
Of what is she dreaming? The slaves are singing of love and bliss;
the waters murmuring of love and bliss, and, in the heart of the
beautiful Sitta Nefysseh, there are also singing, sighing, and
murmuring of love and bliss!
People say that Sitta Nefysseh is proud and has a cold heart. Love
has never dared to approach her since the death of her husband,
Mourad Bey. She is kindly in her manner toward all, yet no one dares
suppose she views him with more favor than others. She keeps all men
at a distance; they all love her and bow down in reverence and
adoration before her, but Sitta Nefysseh remains proud and cold; she
loves no one!
This the people say, and, if she heard it, she would nod her
beautiful head, would smile and say: "They are right, I love no one.
Mourad Bey, my husband and my hero, him I loved! Since he is dead, I
am alone and love no one!"
The black eyes are still peering out through the shrubbery and
flowers, fixed on her with passionate ardor. She does not see them;
but now, as she raises her head as if to rise from her cushions,
these eyes quickly disappear, and a tall, manly figure, stooping
forward behind the trees and shrubbery, glides noiselessly along to
the gate that leads into the inner court-yard. But, before he steps
out, young Youssouf stands still, draws a long breath, and seems to
summon all his resolution to his aid to resist the charm that
carries him away.
"If she knew that I watched her, she would drive me from her, and
then Youssouf would die. Alas! she may not dream that I love her,
she is proud and unapproachable, and what am I to her? The poor
kachef of her deceased husband! She tolerates me as she tolerates
the dog that is accustomed to lie on the threshold of her door.
Alas, I should die if she knew of Youssouf's love for her!"
Kachef Youssouf is handsome, and, were it not the noble Sitta
Nefysseh, exception would be taken to a woman's having so handsome a
kachef in her service. But Sitta Nefysseh is unapproachable, virtue
attends her in all her ways, modesty and dignity are everywhere her
companions. No one dares approach her chaste reputation with even a
breath of reproach.
Youssouf steps into the inner court-yard; he lays his hand on his
brown beard and strokes its curly locks.
"Be a man," murmur his lips. "Be resolute. Alas! I could endure not
being the one if no other dared approach her. But here comes one of
them already. He can approach her and speak of love. Woe is me!"
With profound deference, and forcing his features into a smile,
Youssouf approached Osman Bey Bardissi, who at this moment came into
the court, mounted on his proud, splendidly-equipped steed, and
followed by a body of his Mamelukes.
"Is your mistress at home?" asked Bardissi, springing lightly to the
ground, and throwing the purple-silk reins to the Mameluke who
hurried forward.
"Yes, Sitta Nefysseh is in the park. She is resting in the kiosk,
and I will announce to the female slaves that Osman Bey Bardissi
wishes to see their mistress."
"Do so, Kachef Youssouf," said Bardissi. "But first listen to me.
How would you like to be taken into my service, kachef? you are too
good for this life of inactivity? If you desire it, I will ask Sitta
Nefysseh to give you your freedom?"
"Give me my freedom? I am free!" said Youssouf, regarding Bardissi
with proud composure. "I was a Mameluke with Mourad, as you know. My
noble master had purchased me; he loved me, and often told me I
should remain with him while I lived. He made me kachef, first
kachef of his house. I swore eternal fidelity to him and to his
house, and I will keep my oath."
"I do not doubt it," replied Bardissi, in kindly tones; "I only
mean, Youssouf, that you are too young not to wish to wield the
sword and join us in the conflict that is soon to be renewed. Poor
Youssouf, you will then be shut out from our ranks, for Sitta
Nefysseh no longer sends her Mamelukes with us to battle; she now
uses them for her service only, and I am certain she would be well
pleased if her kachef Youssouf, as it becomes him, draws his sword
to win laurels in the field. You can make something great of
yourself. Look at me, Youssouf: I was what you are; like you a
Mameluke, also like you a kachef, and could let my beard grow, and
now I am a Mameluke bey, and three thousand servants follow me to
battle. You might accomplish as much, Youssouf."
"I am satisfied with what I am, and ask for nothing more," replied
the kachef. "I swore to Mourad Bey to serve him and his house my
life long, and I will keep my oath: I therefore entreat you to say
nothing to Sitta Nefysseh. She might be displeased."
"I will not," replied Bardissi; "remain true to your word. And now
go and inquire whether your mistress can see me."
Youssouf hastened to where the slaves were still singing their
melancholy song, and sent one of them down into the park to inform
her that the Mameluke bey, Osman Bardissi, had come, and desired to
see her.
The slave advanced timidly to the entrance of the kiosk, and
announced the visitor to Sitta Nefysseh, who, awakening from a dream
she had dreamed with open eyes, gently inclined her head.
"He is welcome. Conduct him to me.--Come nearer, ye slaves, and seat
yourselves behind that clump of rose-bushes. You can sing and play
while I am receiving my visitor, for Osman Bey loves music. Do me
honor, my slaves, and sing the love-songs of Djumeil and his Lubna."
Bardissi cannot see these musicians as he advances toward the kiosk,
conducted by the slave; he only hears and rejoices in their song.
Sitta Nefysseh has risen from her cushions, but she has not covered
her face with the veil which, fastened to her hair with golden
clasps, falls back over her shoulders. The widow, and above all the
widow of the bey, is allowed to remain unveiled in the presence of a
friend. The great prophet never commanded that the wives of Moslems
should appear veiled in their own houses; the jealousy of their
husbands had gradually imposed this burden upon them. Conscious of
her own worth and dignity, Sitta Nefysseh feels herself free to
disregard such requirement. She turns her lovely countenance with a
gentle smile toward the advancing bey, and Bardissi feels the glance
of her large eyes, though he does not see them. He feels it, and
moves not, a slight tremor possessing itself of his entire being.
What! Bardissi trembles!--the hero, who amid the din of battle
joyously confronts the death-dealing cannon, who never trembles,
though face to face with a whole forest of spears--Bardissi trembles
and turns pale!
Sitta Nefysseh sees it, and her smile brightens. "Why do you
hesitate to approach, Osman? and what have you to say to me, friend
of my husband, Mourad Bey?"
She wishes to remind him that he had been Mourad's friend. He well
understands her meaning, and, stepping quickly forward, falls on his
knee before her, and reverently kisses the hem of her dress.
"I paused, O Sitta, Rose of Cairo--I paused because I heard the song
of the slaves--they are singing my favorite song."
"The song is known to you?" said Sitta Nefysseh.
"It is. Do you know, Sitta, when I first heard this song?"
"I do not," replied she, shaking her head gently.
"May I tell you?"
"Do so; seat yourself on the marble stool standing at the entrance
of the kiosk, and tell me."
She falls back upon her cushion with the easy grace of a swan. But
Bardissi does not take the seat so graciously assigned him. He steps
forward and remains standing in front of Sitta Nefysseh, gazing down
upon her with reverence and delight, as though his glances were a
consecrated gold-inworked veil in which he wishes to envelop her
lovely form, and draw her to his heart.
"Well, Osman Bey, when did you first hear this song?"
He remains silent for a moment; the bees are humming in the air, the
fountains flashing, and from the distance the words of the song the
slaves are singing are wafted over by the gentle breeze:
"Thee alone on earth have I loved. My longing heart is drawn to
thee. And, though this earth were heaven, and it contained my Lubna
not, I'd wander rather through the gates of hell if I but knew my
Lubna there!"
"If I but knew my Lubna there!" repeated Osman Bey, in low,
tremulous tones.--"You wish to know when I first heard this song? I
will tell you. It was on the evening of a bloody day of battle; I
had ridden at the side of our great chieftain, Mourad Bey. He called
me his friend, his--"
"His favorite," said Sitta Nefysseh, interrupting him. "He said he
loved you like a brother, and would confide to you without fear or
hesitation all he loved best--his wife, his child--knowing that they
would be guarded and held sacred as though they were in the holiest
niche of the mosque. Yes, my noble husband loved you. And now, speak
on. You had gone out to battle."
"Yes, it was a bloody day. The angel of death hovered over us, and
the swords of the enemy swept heavily upon our ranks. A sabre-stroke
dealt by Bashi Seref fell upon the sword-arm of my noble friend,
striking him down and disabling him. The Turk was preparing to deal
a second blow, when I struck him to the earth with my ataghan. I
then bore my friend from the conflict to his tent, and there you
were, Sitta Nefysseh. You received the hero from my arms, and for
the first time I saw your unveiled countenance. I then returned to
the battle, and took Mourad's place at the head of his Mamelukes.
Whether it was anger over the wounding of my friend, or the bliss
caused by the lovely image I had beheld, I know not, but my arm was
strong and mighty, and love and heroism exulted in my heart. I
called out to the Mamelukes, `We must and will die or conquer!' But,
being still too young to die, and loving life too well, we
conquered. The enemy was driven from the field, and ours was the
victory. We encamped on the field after the bloody conflict; and
then, having won the victory, I felt privileged, when evening came,
to repair to Mourad's tent to report our success.
"No one was there to announce me; I drew back the curtain and
entered the first room. No one was there, and the curtain of the
inner apartment of the tent was half drawn aside. I went no farther,
knowing that the wounded Mourad lay there on his cushions, and that
Sitta Nefysseh was with him. I knew this because I heard her
singing; she sang her beloved to sleep as a mother lulls her babe to
rest, or as the houris sing in paradise, when they in wondrous
melody announce the joys of heaven to dying mortals.
"I remained standing in the tent and listened to your song, Sitta
Nefysseh. You sang to your husband of love and happiness--sang in
sweet words what Djumeil says to his Lubna: `Nature breathes love.
The bird in the air sings of love; the spring which bubbles at your
feet murmurs of love; the rose that blossoms in the garden sheds
love's fragrance--all is love and bliss. Woe to them who know
nothing more of love, woe to them who bear a cold heart in their
bosom.' This you sang, Sitta Nefysseh, and I stood listening,
entranced. What I then felt was so all-absorbing, so divinely
beautiful, that I was unwilling to have the harmony of that sweet
moment broken in upon by the voice of man. I silently withdrew; your
song informed me that Mourad slept and was in heavenly bliss. I
noiselessly left the tent, and stepped out into the night. The moon
shed its soft light around, enveloping the white tents scattered
over the plain and the terrors of the day in a heavenly, silver
veil.
"I did not return to my tent that night, however. Where was I? If
you should ask, Sitta Nefysseh, I could not tell you. But this much
I can tell you, I was in paradise! I thought of this when I just now
heard your slaves sing the song I then heard for the first time, and
that has resounded in my heart ever since. I covered it with thick
veils, and laid my hand on it to silence it: and I found it possible
to do so while my noble friend Mourad still lived. I forced my heart
to bury in its depths its wishes and longings. I have been silent,
Sitta Nefysseh, not only while Mourad lived, but I have also honored
the period allotted to a widow's mourning. But this is now passed;
pain has vanisbed from your heart, I trust. Your heavenly
countenance is again radiant with youthful loveliness, and no longer
shows the traces of sorrow."
"It is true, Osman Bey," said Nefysseh, with a low sigh; "time heals
all wounds, and sorrow no longer darkens my soul; yet know that
Mourad Bey still lives in my heart, and it is because he still lives
for me that I am able to bear this life and this separation."
"I well know, O Sitta, your fidelity, your noble sentiments,"
replied Bardissi; "it is this knowledge that makes me adore and
reverence you; and were it not strange if I, too, could ever forget
the man who loved you so passionately, and whose memory you still
love? But such love, Sitta, excites no jealousy, and even he who
loves passionately respects such love. Listen to me, Sitta Nefysseh;
hear why I have come to you; I can endure it no longer; the seal
must at last fall from his lips, and Bardissi must give utterance to
what he feels, to that which glows in his heart, and can no longer
be repressed. Yes, Sitta Nefysseh, you must at last hear that I am
dying for love, and that if you refuse to hear me, I must--"
"Silence!" exclaimed Nefysseh, interrupting him, with queenly
composure, as she rose from her seat--"silence, Osman Bey! do you
not know that my husband Mourad lived here in this garden, in this
place? How could his wife, Sitta Nefysseh, have received you
unveiled if her husband had not stood by her side? Do you not see
him, Osman Bey? Do you not see his eyes fixed on you with an angry
expression, and do not his lips ask his friend how he can betray
friendship? What was your promise to Mourad? To honor and guard his
wife while you lived."
"And I will, Sitta Nefysseh. I do guard and honor her, but I also
love her as ardently as ever man loved woman!" exclaimed Bardissi,
in passionate tones. "Does not man honor woman most when he loves
her best? How can I better prove my adoration and reverence than by
laying my life at your feet, and saying, in tones of humble
entreaty, `Sitta Nefysseh, be my wife, follow me to my house, and be
mistress of myself and of all that I am?"
"Do not say this, Osman Bey, I entreat you, do not speak thus to
me!" cried Sitta Nefysseh in a loud voice. "It would give pain to me
to have to answer you, and it will be better not to have heard your
words. I call you friend, and I wish you to remain my friend all
your life long. Yet, hear me; my heart is open to no other love, and
my hands must remain unfettered. Mourad's widow remains true to
herself, and to him who dwells in her heart, and is ever at her
side. Let us forget, Osman, what you, carried away by your
friendship, have said. You thought Mourad's wife felt herself alone
in the world, and, out of friendship for your deceased friend, you
desired to offer her the support of your heroic hand. If ever I
should need assistance, and a friend, rest assured, Osman, I shall
call on you. But now, step back, one of my slaves is approaching
with a message. Turn your countenance away, Osman, it looks so
gloomy and passionate; I would not have her notice your love."
He turns aside, and seems to be listening to the distant singing and
playing of the slaves; he, however, hears the slave, who now enters
the kiosk, announce that L'Elfi Bey desires to see her mistress. He
hears it, and shudders. L'Elfi Bey, his friend and companion-in-
arms; what brings him here to Mourad's widow?
Sitta Nefysseh sends word that the bey is welcome, and the slave
departs on her errand.
"L'Elfi Bey is permitted to come to you!"
"And why not?" asked she proudly. "Was not Osman Bey permitted to
visit me, and was not L'Elfi also my husband's friend?"
"It is true; forgive my thoughtlessness," replied Osman in low and
almost angry tones. "Permit me to take my leave, Sitta Nefysseh. I
do not wish to disturb your interview with the great L'Elfi Bey."
"On the contrary, you will please remain," replied she, quietly,
gracefully drawing her fragrant veil over her head, and covering her
face.
Bardissi's heroic countenance became radiant with delight. She had
received him unveiled, and now that L'Elfi comes she veils herself.
Allah be praised, that is a favorable omen; a ray of light
penetrating the gloom that enveloped his soul; he has seen her
unveiled, and --
"L'Elfi Bey comes," said Sitta Nefysseh, rising to welcome her new
visitor.
CHAPTER X
L'ELFI BEY.
Haughtily erect, the bey advanced, followed by four Mamelukes in
rich, gold-embroidered garments, who bore a casket covered with a
purple cloth, whose golden fringe hung down to the ground.
As L'Elfi came near, his countenance assumed a deferential
appearance, and, his arms crossed on his breast, he stepped forward
and bowed profoundly before Sitta Nefysseh.
"Queen of my heart, sun of my eyes! Allow me to do homage, and to
lay my present at your feet as a token of my devotion!"
He beckoned to the Mamelukes to come forward and lay the casket down
before her.
"I rejoice that you have come, L'Elfi," said Nefysseh, quietly. "I
rejoice, because it proves that your wounds are now healed, as are
those of Osman Bey. Yet, I see no necessity for such outward proofs
of your friendship."
"O Sitta Nefysseh!" cried L'Elfi. "One brings his offerings to the
good spirits, and, if I were a heathen, I would say, 'I lay on the
altar of my goddess the tokens of my adoration, of my love!'"
"You are, however, no heathen, but a Moslem; and what becomes a
heathen does not become the brave Mameluke L'Elfi Bey!"
"What I am elsewhere is forgotten," cried L'Elfi; "here I am nothing
but your slave, nothing but a man who would gladly pluck the stars
from heaven to lay them at your feet! Therefore allow me to do
homage to my queen as my heart prompts!"
He drew the cloth from the casket, and golden dishes, goblets, and
vases, glittered in the sunshine; and these vessels contained
jewelry of varied design, set with precious stones that would have
delighted the eyes of many.
Sitta Nefysseh regarded all this magnificence with an air of
indifference.
"Accept the offering my adoration lays at your feet!" entreated
L'Elfi. "You know I was with the British general in England, and,
while there, I thought of you, and, before the ship left London, it
was for days my sole occupation and endeavor to select beautiful
things for you from among the articles displayed in the magnificent
stores. I could not bring them with me, but they were sent after me,
and have this day arrived. Pray accept them at the hands of your
slave!"
"It seems to me that no one is privileged to offer Mourad Bey's
widow presents of such value," said she, almost severely. "Yet," she
continued in milder tones, "I will not humiliate him who was my
husband's friend and companion. I will accept your gifts; they shall
be placed in the saloon, and all the world shall see how L'Elfi Bey
seeks to honor the widow of his former chieftain and friend. Thus
will I accept your gifts, and give you thanks for them!--Come, Osman
Bardissi!" she continued in louder tones, beckoning to the bey, who
stood without in the shade of an oleander-tree--"come and see the
magnificent presents which L'Elfi Bey has brought me from England!"
L'Elfi's countenance darkened, and he recoiled a step almost in
anger. "What! Osman Bey is here?"
"And why not? He has recovered from the wounds received at Aboukir.
Does it not become him to pay his respects to me? He has this
privilege in common with yourself."
"True, my queen; pray forgive me for daring to find fault with your
pleasure.--I greet you, Osman Bey Bardissi. I am glad to see you
here! And now, I pray you, let me also see the gifts which you have
brought the Rose of Cairo in token of your reverence and devotion.
What becomes you, becomes me also; and, as Sitta Nefysseh has
allowed you to see what I have brought, she will not refuse to
permit me to see the offering of your devotion."
"You shall see it, L'Elfi Bey," said Osman, in a somewhat derisive
tone. He stepped to the lattice-work of the kiosk, and, plucking the
most beautiful crimson rose he could see, knelt down before Sitta
Nefysseh and laid it at her feet. "This, Sitta, is my gift. I lay at
your feet, the most beautiful of your sisters, your image!"
She smiled. "I thank you, Osman Bey, and gladly accept your
offering, for Allah has created it."
He handed her the rose. She took it, held it to her face, and
inhaled its fragrance. She then gracefully fell back on her cushion.
"Arise, Bardissi!" said she. "I have accepted the gifts of both of
you; and, now that you are both the same in sentiment, but one thing
is wanting."
"And what is this one thing still wanting?"
"Grasp each other's hands," said she, smiling. "I know that you have
long been at enmity with each other; discord prevails in the land of
my great beys. Let hatred now be set aside. You are both mighty and
renowned, but your power will be much greater if you join hands. Let
your followers see that you stand united against the common enemy.
Oh, how can the fatherland be saved when its defenders are at enmity
with each other! The enemy has grown stronger. You know that new
troops have arrived here from Turkey, and a man is at their head, of
whom I will announce to you that he is dangerous. Therefore grasp
hands, and let me see that you are friends!"
"Then let it be so," said Bardissi, after a pause. "See, Sitta
Nefysseh, how great your power over me.--Here, L'Elfi, my hand! Let
us unitedly face the enemy!"
L'Elfi slowly and hesitatingly laid his band in that of Osman Bey.
"I accept your hand, Osman, in token of our resolve to confront the
enemy together. But, before I declare myself your friend, I must
first know whether you are my rival or not."
Osman Bey quickly withdrew his hand. "A rival, L'Elfi! and with whom
do you suppose me to be your rival?"
"With you, O Sitta Nefysseh!" said L'Elfi, falling on his knee
before her, "With you, whom I adore as one adores the sun and the
stars. For your love, I can tolerate no rival!--And now I beg you to
withdraw, Osman Bey; I have that to say to Sitta Nefysseh which no
other should hear."
Osman regarded him fiercely. "I should like to know if L'Elfi is
privileged to advise or command Osman Bey Bardissi here, where it
devolves upon Sitta Nefysseh alone to determine who shall go, and
who remain."
"Then decide, O Sitta!" said L'Elfi.
"You shall both go; neither shall remain," replied she, sadly. "I
see that you are still enemies. Oh, I tell you, you will reap a
bitter harvest from this bitter seed. The struggle, in which you
should present to the enemy a united front, already begins, and you
are still at enmity. Therefore, I say to you, leave me, and return
no more; while hatred exists between you, you shall never more come
into my presence!"
"Forgiveness, forgiveness! Our hatred shall be forgotten!" exclaimed
both, falling upon their knees before her.
"My only entreaty is this," cried L'Elfi. "Allow me a brief quarter
of an hour. Was not Osman Bey honored with an audience alone, and
would it not become you to show me the same favor?"
"He was the first who came," replied she, quickly, "and, therefore,
was I alone with him. Had you accompanied him, you would have heard
what he had to say, just as he shall hear what you have to say."
"Then let it be so; he shall hear!" exclaimed L'Elfi, springing to
his feet. He first turned haughtily to Osman Bey, and then bowed
profoundly before Sitta Nefysseh. "Let the whole world hear what
L'Elfi has to say to the widow of his friend. He comes here to lay
all he possesses at your feet. He desires to consecrate to you his
life and heart's blood, and entreats the loveliest and noblest of
women to hear his prayers. L'Elfi is free! No wife has ever stood at
his side; he has no harem, as many others have. He has never, like
others, reclined on soft cushions gazing at the dancing of the
voluptuous almehs--has loved naught but his sword and ataghan; but
his heart is now inclined in love and humility toward you, the only
woman it owns as its mistress; and I now entreat you, O Sitta
Nefysseh, queen of my heart, become also queen of my house and
harem."
"As he entreats, so do I entreat also!" cried Osman Bey, in angry
tones, thrusting L'Elfi aside, and falling on his knee before her.
"Be mine, Nefysseh! True, I have loved others, and have also looked
with pleasure at the dancing of the female slaves in the harem, yet
I have hitherto adored no woman. Military glory, my adoration
heretofore, grows pale when Sitta Nefysseh appears, and all else
that I have loved and hoped for is as nothing in her presence. For
your sake, I will sacrifice not only life, but renown. Command, and
I will be your slave; at your feet will I lay my sword and dagger.
With my head bowed down, and my beard shorn, will I follow you into
the desert, blessing each day and hour in which I am permitted to
look upon my queen. Now, O Sitta Nefysseh, you know what Osman Bey
Bardissi feels, and that he can boast of a greater love than L'Elfi;
he even offers to sacrifice renown for you! Decide whom you will
bless, Nefysseh! One thing more I will say to you: if you select the
hand of my rival, and command me to love him, I cannot promise to do
so! Yet this I swear, that I will be contented with your choice, and
that I will never seek to take or shorten his life. Consider,
Nefysseh, that this is the most enormous sacrifice that Osman can
make for the woman he loves; he promises not to kill him upon whom
she bestows her hand."
"And you, L'Elfi," said Nefysseh, in a soft voice, "will you swear
the same?"
"I will," cried L'Elfi. "I swear that I will do as Osman Bey has
said--I will still detest my enemy, but I will not kill him whom you
love. Now speak, Sitta Nefysseh, and decide between us!"
For a moment all were silent. The two beys awaited her decision with
wildly-throbbing hearts. She was still silent, her large eyes turned
toward heaven with a wondrous expression.
At this moment the song of the slaves, accompanied by the music of
the clarinet and violin, again resounded from the midst of the
oleander and rose-bushes. The voice of a slave arose, singing of a
slave who loves his mistress, and dies because of her indifference.
He has borne this bitter sorrow for long days and nights, and dares
not tell the tale of his love. He bore it, and was blessed in being
permitted to see her, but her heart was cold and knew no love for
him. But greater unhappiness was in store for him. One day there
came a proud and mighty bey, and succeeded in winning the love of
his adored; and Fate willed it that the poor, tortured slave should
see her eyes fixed on the bey in a loving gaze, and he also saw him
fall on his knees before his mistress and take her hand and carry it
to his lips. Then the poor slave's heart broke, and, falling to the
earth, he died, sighing, "I love thee!"
All three had listened to the sad air and words of the song. Sitta
Nefysseh now turned to the beys.
"This song has no bearing upon you. You will never see Sitta
Nefysseh give her love and hand to another! You who were my
husband's friends I will ever consider my friends! But hear me:
Mourad's widow will never marry again! As I knelt at the death-bed
of my husband, bathing his wound with my tears, I swore that I would
ever remain true to him I had loved so ardently my life long, and
never become the wife of another. And now I ask, noble beys, can you
desire Mourad's widow to perjure herself? I know you will say the
heart knows no oaths, love cannot be restrained. That may be, but do
not speak of it to me. You have come to ask with which of you I will
share the remainder of my days; I ask you, decide yourselves, can I
break this solemn oath?"
The two beys bow their heads still deeper, and sigh profoundly.
"Decide!" repeated Sitta Nefysseh.
They raise their heads and gaze at her sadly. "No, Sitta Nefysseh!
You may not break the oath to your husband, sworn in the name of
Allah and the prophet! No, you can never bestow your hand upon
another. Alas, that this is so! alas, that we must submit!"
"No, it is well that it is so!" said Sitta Nefysseh, with a soft
smile. "Mourad's widow has the right to be the friend of both of
you; she may hold out her hands to you and say: `Be my friends, my
brothers, and, as you love me, also love one another.' For the
second time I entreat you, grasp each other's hands and be friends.
For both let there be one common enemy--the enemy who confronts you
on the field of battle--the Turk! Grasp hands in love and
friendship!"
The two beys grasped each other's hands firmly.
"Let it be as our friend and sister wishes; she shall see us united.
Let there be for us but one common enemy--the Turk!"
"An enemy who grows stronger each day!" said Sitta Nefysseh. "We
thought to have peace when the Franks should have left, but
unfortunately it is not so. The Turks are resolved to subjugate us.
I know they will not rest until they have overthrown and destroyed
the haughty Mameluke beys! They are continually bringing new troops,
into the country, and their leader is a dangerous enemy, believe
me!"
"For the second time you speak of this `dangerous enemy.' Tell us,
Sitta, who is he?"
"He it is," said she, in earnest tones, "who brought the letter to
the capitan pacha at Aboukir; he it is who confronted you in that
bloody struggle, and whose courage, boldness, and determination,
captured the stronghold Rosetta. I have read the countenance of the
sarechsme, and in his eye I have recognized the lion and the fox
combined. Before him, I for the first time in my life experienced
fear. Beware of him; if possible, make a friend of him, for the
sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, would prove a mighty ally!"
"I know him well," said Osman Bey, smiling. "I met him when a boy,
and even then we confronted each other as enemies. A short time
since I met him again, and he then protected me from the fury of his
soldiers; and I am grateful. I will endeavor, Sitta, to win him over
to our interests, as you suggest. If we succeed, and when this
formidable enemy shall have become our ally, the Mameluke beys will
have great cause to congratulate themselves, and thank Sitta
Nefysseh again."
"The only proof of your gratitude that I ask is, that you stand
united. Thank me by pronouncing my name when you stand side by side
on the battle-field, from which you have driven the enemy!"
"We will do so. Your name will I pronounce when I go out to battle!
And your name will my lips utter, O Sitta Nefysseh, when I sink down
upon the bloody field!" Thus spoke both, and then bowed profoundly
before Mourad's widow.
"And now you may go," said she, gently. "Walk arm-in-arm through the
Muskj Street, that all the world may see that the two greatest
Mameluke beys are friends. If these are united, then will the
struggle soon terminate. Now go and show the people that you are
friends."
"And if they express surprise at our friendship," cried Osman Bey,
his eyes sparkling, "we will say Mourad's widow wills it so, and we
humbly and cheerfully obey."
"Yes, we will say this," cried l'Elfi, joyously. "Mourad's widow
commanded us to be united, and therefore are we united.--And now let
us go, Osman Bey; it is, however, not necessary that we walk arm-in-
arm here; only when we have passed the threshold of this house shall
Osman give me his arm, that the world may see your influence over
us."
Osman Bey walked rapidly down the avenue. L'Elfi followed him slowly
and hesitatingly, looking back twice at Sitta Nefysseh. The latter
waved her hand deprecatingly, and he then rapidly followed Osman.
Sitta Nefysseh sighed profoundly as the two disappeared through the
gateway, falling back upon her cushions as if overwhelmed with
grief. She heard nothing of the music, that still resounded from the
rose-bushes; she heard only the secret and sacred voices which
lamented in her soul, and she shuddered at what they said.
"No, no, it may not be," said she to herself. "I saved myself from
their importunity by the falsehood of the oath. I never swore to my
husband that Mourad's wife would become the wife of no other. It was
not because an oath bound her that she rejected them; but because
her heart so willed it. Not without love is Mourad's widow; but whom
she loves no one must know, no one must even suspect."
She arose and threw back her veil to wipe away the tears that burned
her eyes. Suddenly she trembled, a deep blush overspreading her
countenance. She saw the young kachef Youssouf coming up the walk.
She saw his proud, erect figure, his countenance full of youthful
freshness and nobility. She drew heir veil more closely about her;
but the veil cannot hide the brightness of her eyes. They fairly
sparkled as he advanced. He approached slowly. She seemed not to see
him, leaned back on her cushions, raised the crimson rose to her
face, and inhaled its fragrance. Kachef Youssouf, his arms folded on
his breast, stood at the entrance of the kiosk.
"Sitta Nefysseh, mistress, you command to have your carriage ready,
as you wished to drive out at this hour. It is ready, and I humbly
ask if it is your pleasure to go now, and if I may have the honor of
accompanying your suite, and riding at the side of your carriage?"
Sitta Nefysseh, who was still inhaling the fragrance of the rose,
slowly let fall her hand to her side, and the flower fell from her
fingers to the ground.
"You are an attentive, punctual servant," said she. "I thank you; I
will drive out at once with two of my women; you may ride beside my
carriage."
Sitta Nefysseh arose and left the kiosk. She passed close by him,
and her white veil lightly touched Youssouf's shoulder. He stood as
if touched by a magic wand and fixed to the spot. He could not
follow his mistress, who walked proudly toward the place where the
women awaited her. He followed her with his eyes, however, and saw
how her long flowing garment adjusted itself to her lovely figure,
and how her white veil fluttered about her noble head, enveloping it
as with a delicate white cloud.
"Would that I were the wind that kisses your cheek!" murmured he,
lost in contemplation of his idol. "Would I were the sand your foot
blesses with its touch! To die near you, beholding you in death,
were heavenly bliss."
Sitta Nefysseh had disappeared behind the clump of bushes. Kachef
Youssouf still stood before the kiosk. He listened. The music had
ceased. He knew that his mistress was returning with her women to
the house. He hastily glanced around the garden, fastening his
large, black eyes, on every bush, as if expecting to find an enemy
concealed there. No one is to be seen. Only Heaven and the bees in
the air see Youssouf as he rushes into the kiosk, picks up the rose,
presses it passionately to his lips, and then conceals it in his
bosom.
CHAPTER XI
THE COUNCIL OF WAR.
From the day of their first meeting, when Cousrouf Pacha appointed
Mohammed Ali sarechsme, the new general had proved his bravery and
his shrewdness in many a skirmish and battle with the Mamelukes. He
had already captured from them two strongholds, and had returned
victorious from every battle with them. Cousrouf praised his fortune
at having such a general at his side. Mohammed Ali showed himself so
zealous and devoted in his service that the viceroy listened to his
advice only, and called him his favorite and confidant.
"Truly, I am a happy man," said Cousrouf to himself. "I am the ruler
of a great kingdom. I have friends at my side in whom I can confide,
and who will assist me in all my plans, executing all I determine.
Who knows but that a great future still awaits me, and that the
crown which now hangs suspended over my head may not one day adorn
it in reality? Mohammed shall aid me. He is the bravest of the
brave, and the wisest of the wise."
He walked to and fro in his room as he said this to himself, his
countenance radiant with smiles.
"I will soon have my wives brought to me, and my daughters also. Who
knows, perhaps it were well to chain the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, to
my side with still closer bonds? Who knows? Sometimes a strange
presentiment comes over me when I look at him. Mohammed's eyes
sometimes glitter so strangely and angrily, but he is conscious of
it at once, and then becomes more gentle and devoted than ever.
There are times when I distrust him. It were perhaps well to fasten
him to my side so firmly that he cannot free himself. Yes, I had
best give him one of my daughters in marriage. He must be submissive
and devoted to his father-in-law at all times," said he, in low
tones, "Sometimes I think his smooth countenance conceals a gloomy
soul, and that Mohammed Ali has not yet forgotten the evil done the
young lad in Cavalla. But these are mere fancies. He has proved on
every occasion that he no longer thinks of it. I will have him
called and study his countenance while speaking with him."
He sent one of his slaves to request the sarechsme to come to him.
After a few minutes Mohammed entered. He bowed profoundly before
Cousrouf, and seemed delighted when invited to seat himself beside
the pacha on the divan, and smoke the chibouque with him.
"Tell me, Mohammed, how old are you?" asked Cousrouf, after a pause,
blowing clouds of smoke from his lips, and seeming to regard the
general with kindly composure. "How old are you?"
"I hardly know, highness," replied Mohammed, smiling. "But let me
count. I believe I was fifteen when, at Cavalla, I first had the
happiness of meeting you, my distinguished master."
"Let us proceed with the calculation," said Cousrouf. "I remained
three years in Cavalla. By Allah, they seemed to me to be three
centuries! Yes, I remained there three years, and you were therefore
eighteen when I left Cavalla?"
"Yes, eighteen years old; and a wild, reckless lad I was, too! Even
now I beg your forgiveness for my conduct at that time," said
Mohammed, humbly.
The viceroy bowed a gracious consent.
"Since then twelve years have passed, and you are therefore now
thirty."
"You see, I am an old man! And when I look back at the past it seems
to me I have lived an eternity. Yes, highness, I am an old man, and
can hardly say that any wishes or aspirations now find a place in my
bosom."
"Are you alone in the world?" asked Cousrouf. "Have you no family?"
A strange fire gleamed for an instant in Mohammed's eyes, and he
compressed his lips firmly. How could he who had inflicted such
intolerable anguish upon him, how could he question him as to his
heart's history? Woe to him for so doing! for this, too, shall
retribution be visited upon him!
"Yes, highness, I have a family. I have a wife and three sons at
home in Cavalla."
"One wife only!" said the pacha. "Are you contented with one wife?"
"One is often too many," replied Mohammed. "But this does not apply
to my wife. She is the niece of the tschorbadji, and devoted to me.
I have no cause to complain of her."
"Is that all?" asked the pacha, with an air of indifference. "You
have nothing further to say of her? Then you do not love her, I
suppose?"
"Highness, I believe love was torn from my heart in my youth."
"Everyone says that until he loves," replied Cousrouf, composedly
blowing clouds of smoke from his mouth. "Yet, in my opinion, one is
never too old to love; the heart never grows old. Let me know it if
you feel that another love can blossom in your heart, and that you
wish, in addition to the wife you have long possessed--and I know
that possession gives satiety--another, a young and beautiful wife.
Perhaps I can find such a one for you. And I will do so, Mohammed,
if you return victorious from the new campaign."
"A new campaign? and against whom?" was Mohammed's only response.
"Against whom? Against the insolent Mameluke beys, of course. The
time has come to dispose of them finally," said Cousrouf. "Listen,
general. The grand-sultan, weary of these incessant struggles with
the rebellious Mameluke beys, is resolved to bring them to a
conclusion, and restore peace to the province of Egypt. You,
however, have now been here long enough to know that peace in Egypt
means death and destruction to the Mameluke beys."
"Yes, highness, peace in Egypt means death to the Mameluke beys!"
replied Mohammed Ali. "Truly, while one of them survives, so long
will his proud, ambitious heart prompt him to endeavor to reconquer
the rule which he believes is predestined for the Mameluke beys by
Allah and the prophet."
"They shall learn that Allah has doomed them to destruction!" cried
Cousrouf, passionately. "All is arranged. To the Franks we are
indebted for one thing, and that is for having fought these
rebellious beys. Since the French expedition the number of the
Mamelukes is diminished by at least one-half. In order to prevent
them from recruiting their decimated ranks, the grand-sultan has
issued a firman which prohibits further importation into Egypt of
Circassian and Georgian slaves."
"And yet, as I have heard, they resort to other sources to refill
their depleted ranks," said Mohammed, respectfully. "I am told that
they recruit their forces with the inhabitants of the desert, with
the children of Albania, and the tribe of Achmed Ali."
"They do, it is true. But the Arabs and Bedouins are poor
substitutes for the Georgian and Circassian slaves. You cannot make
lions of wild-cats, nor tigers of jackals. Moreover, discord has
fallen out among the Mameluke beys themselves, since Mourad Bey
fell. He was a great man and a hero! But since his death they have
lacked a chieftain who could unite them; Tamboudji Bey was such a
one for a brief season, but, as you know, he fell at Aboukir. Three
others are now quarrelling over the succession. There is Osman Bey
Bardissi; Ibrahim Bey, the old Mameluke chieftain; and finally,
L'Elfi Bey, a protege of the English, as Bardissi is of the French.
These three are now at daggers'-ends as to who shall be the leader.
We must, it seems to me, draw advantage from this quarrel. I know
Bardissi and Ibrahim have again applied to France, and have sent
ambassadors to the French general, Bonaparte, to solicit their aid
against their own masters--against us, the Turks. L'Elfi Bey,
however, has sought the intervention of England, and begged for
assistance against us in that quarter. They well know that they are
too weak to resist us alone. And therefore, it seems to me, we
should avail ourselves of this favorable moment when they are
awaiting foreign aid. They must be overwhelmed, never to rise
again."
"How wise your words, highness! Overwhelmed they must be for all
time, in order that you alone may rule, and that the sultan at
Stamboul may look with admiration upon him who has restored to the
old rulers of Egypt the power of former days. This great work is
reserved for you, Cousrouf Pacha, and your most obedient and devoted
servant, Mohammed Ali, will consider himself highly honored, if
permitted to aid you in this great cause."
"I count on you," replied the pacha, inclining his head graciously.
"I know your devotion and zeal in my service, and therefore do I
advise with you in all my plans, and speak to you as to my other
self. To proceed: The Mameluke beys who applied to England and
France also addressed a letter to me at the same time. In this
letter they request me to conclude with them an armistice of five
months' duration, in order that they may address themselves to the
sultan at Constantinople, to settle, with the assistance of the
English and French ambassadors there, the terms of a final treaty of
peace. What do you think our answer to the demand of these Mameluke
beys should be, Mohammed? Shall we consent to this armistice? Give
me your views without reserve. What is your opinion?"
"I think, highness, that it would be folly to grant this armistice.
The Mamelukes would avail themselves of this interval to recruit
their ranks, and would secretly import slaves. They are cunning, and
many resources are open to them. They would make warriors of these
slaves in five months, and they would then be the first to
recommence the war!"
Cousrouf remained silent for a time. "You are a good general in the
field, and a good adviser in the cabinet. I rejoice in your
possession!" said he, with his most gracious manner. "Just as you
think and say, have I determined, and I have informed these insolent
beys that I will not grant them a respite of five months, nor of
five weeks; no, not of five days. I, moreover, informed them that if
they so ardently desired to have peace, and to enjoy peace, they
should submit, and come to Cairo, and live here as Osman Bey Hassan
does, who has hitherto also been a Mameluke chieftain. Further, I
told them that I was ready to treat with them, and, in order to be
rid of this continuous plundering and robbing, I offered to assign
them the province of Esneh, in Upper Egypt, where they might indulge
their propensities to their hearts' content. They, however, in their
insolence, demanded that I should give them the whole province of
Girgeh in addition. This I refused. And now, I think, we have had
attempts enough at peace-making. I will draw the sword again, and my
armies shall take the field against these insolent rebels. Youssouf
Bey, my lieutenant, leads the first column, and the second, my
Mohammed Ali, the second you will lead!"
"I thank you, highness, and I promise to lead my soldiers to battle
and victory, or to be brought back with the dead!"
"You will lead them to victory, and return a victor. My general,
Taher Pacha, will unite his forces with yours and Youssouf Bey's.
Taher Pacha is already on the march from Upper Egypt. And now, tell
me, do you think our forces are strong enough to chastise and
overthrow the Mameluke beys?"
"In order to reply, I must first know the strength of all your
forces combined." He spoke with downcast eyes, apparently all
devotion, and only intent on his master's advantage. Cousrouf Pacha
was far from suspecting with what feverish suspense the sarechsme
awaited his reply.
"I will tell you, and you alone, Mohammed Ali," replied he, in
subdued tones. "We have only sixteen or seventeen thousand soldiers,
and it will be difficult to concentrate them at one point, as they
are scattered throughout Middle and Upper Egypt. The nucleus of this
army that is to be formed consists of the four thousand Albanians
sent me by the capitan pacha, and these Albanians count double. They
are strong and brave. To be sure they are also a little too wild and
headstrong; and, in addition, they are not Turks."
"O highness," said Mohammed, with a sigh, "if that is a fault, I
must express my profound regret, as I unfortunately am not a Turk
myself."
"And yet I confide in you," said Cousrouf, "as I know you are
repairing the misfortune of your birth by your deeds. But I would
never place the same reliance in the old troops of Albania; and,
therefore, I have formed a corps of Nubians, and selected a body-
guard from the number of these black slaves, and upon them I can and
do rely. They have become good soldiers; I have taken a number of
French soldiers into my service, and they have drilled my body-guard
well. Yes, upon them I can rely. If traitors should come near me,
they would slay them."
"How could traitors come near your highness?" said Mohammed, with an
air of dismay. " Who could dare to threaten Cousrouf Pacha, the kind
and noble ruler, with treason! No. You can sleep in peace. Treason
must stand aloof from your great and sacred person."
The pacha shook his head. "The viceroy will not sleep in peace,
Mohammed, until you can announce to him that the last Mameluke bey
lies dead at your feet."
"I trust, highness, that I shall soon be able to make this
announcement," said Mohammed, in kindly tones. "My most ardent
desire is to march out to battle, and prove to my kind master that I
am not only a good soldier, but also a true and devoted servant."
"Then march out to battle, Mohammed, and be mindful of what I before
said. Cousrouf will, perhaps, be able to reward the victorious
Mohammed with a beautiful young wife, with a rich dowry. Go! Be
mindful of this, and hold your troops in readiness to march. Taher
Pacha will already have received my orders to join you; and Youssouf
Bey, my lieutenant, is also ready to take the field. You will follow
him rapidly, and, united, you will give battle to the Mamelukes." He
then dismissed Mohammed with a gracious salutation.
As the latter passes out through the antechamber, his head humbly
bowed down, he whispers to himself: "The black body-guard would slay
those who should threaten your life! Cousrouf Pacha, I am glad you
rely on your black body-guard!"
CHAPTER XII
THE ABDUCTION.
OSMAN BEY BARDISSI was encamped on the plain of Darmanhour with his
Mamelukes, awaiting the arrival of L'Elfi Bey and his forces. Spies
and scouts had announced that the Turkish army was advancing from
Cairo in two columns, and that Taher Pacha was approaching from
another direction--from Upper Egypt-at the head of seven thousand
men.
Bardissi's countenance lighted up with joy when the Bedouin sheik
Arnhyn brought this intelligence.
"The decisive moment, the day of battle is at hand. If we are
victors, how Sitta Nefysseh will smile on us, how happy she will
be!"
Yes, the decisive moment is at hand. Perhaps Nefysseh's cold heart
will be touched, perhaps she will bestow upon the victor a glorious
reward--herself.
But why does not L'Elfi come? Without him Bardissi cannot, he well
knows, venture to give battle, for he, with his men and the
Mamelukes of Elmar Bey, is too weak to engage an enemy of such
superior strength.
"To be sure, the Turks are cowards," said Osman to himself; "and
against the Turks every Mameluke counts for two. Yet, as the scouts
announce, their forces are too strong for us. Youssouf Bey comes
first at the head of three thousand Turks, and the sarechsme,
Mohammed Ali, follows him with five thousand men. In addition to
these, Taher Pacha is also advancing with his forces; if they all
unite, it is impossible that we should be victorious, and yet we
must be victorious."
At last, intelligence is brought that L'Elfi Bey is advancing. He,
however, brings but few of his warriors with him, and his
countenance is sad and gloomy.
The beys, Osman at their head, gather around him, and impart to him
the intelligence brought by the scouts with regard to the strength
of the enemy.
"We should therefore advance against him as soon as possible, and
vanquish one of his corps after the other before they have time to
unite."
L'Elfi Bey shook his head. "We must wait, friends and companions in
arms," said he. "I think it would be rash and unwise to meet the
enemy, when his army is twice as strong as ours, and I came here to
tell you this."
"Then, by Allah, it would have been better had you not come!" cried
Bardissi, angrily. "Shall the Turks say of us that we, the brave and
haughty Mamelukes, have fled at their approach?"
"Let them say what they please, Osman Bey Bardissi," responded
L'Elfi Bey, throwing his head back proudly. "What care we? We do not
flee, we only retreat. And our friends advise us to do this."
"Who are these friends?" asked Bardissi, angrily.
"The English, none of whom, as you know, have ever deceived us. They
have informed me that the Turks are advancing in three columns, and
have advised me not to attack them. They say it would be a great
risk, and such a risk would not be advisable without a better
prospect of success. But we could not hope for success, for, as you
know yourselves, we are in want of arms and ammunition. If
vanquished, we should also be massacred, and they would finish here
at Damanhour the work they began at Aboukir. Can you desire that, ye
beys?"
"We desire to conquer, and not to flee like cowards!" replied
Bardissi, haughtily.
"The unwise general attacks incautiously, and when defeated is
laughed at for his pains," replied L'Elfi. "The wise general yields
to necessity, and awaits his opportunity."
"Then you can wait, L'Elfi!" cried Bardissi.
"I will wait, and have resolved to do so," said L'Elfi, gravely. "I
came to warn you, and not to take part in this ridiculous
expedition. But observe, Bardissi, I do not flee--I retreat. Woe to
you if you do not follow my example; woe to you all if you let
rashness instead of prudence prevail, and attack the Turks now! I
repeat it, strong columns are advancing! First, Youssouf Bey; then
the shrewd sarechsme--you know, Bardissi, who told us to beware of
him--the shrewd sarechsme, Mohammed Ali; and, finally, Taher Pacha,
and woe to you if you venture to attack them!"
"Woe to him who sees and understands his enemy, and yet dare not
attack him!" cried Bardissi.
L'Elfi seemed not to hear him. He beckoned to the Mamelukes who had
come with him, greeted his friends with a proud inclination of the
head, and galloped away.
At a short distance from the camp a small body of English horsemen
awaited L'Elfi and his Mamelukes. With them the Mameluke chieftain
rode off, riding day and night until they reached Tantah; there
fresh horses awaited them, and thence they continued their journey
until they reached Alexandria. Here L'Elfi Bey embarked with the
Englishmen. For the second time he left Egypt. He wished to forget
in a foreign land that Mourad's widow, the beautiful Sitta Nefysseh,
had rejected him and his love. It was no consolation to him that
Bardissi had suffered the same fate. Unrequited love causes bitter
anguish. L'Elfi thought only of his heart's misery, and cared
nothing for war and military renown. He will return home when his
heart's anguish is stilled. Then L'Elfi Bey will draw his sword
again to fight for victory and renown. Bardissi felt differently. If
the former felt that it was necessary to go into solitude to heal
his heart's wounds, the latter preferred to seek distraction in
inflicting wounds on his enemies. "For every sigh that passes his
lips he will make a Turk exhale his life's breath," so thinks
Bardissi the brave.
Immediately after L'Elfi's departure, Bardissi called the kachefs of
his Mamelukes, and those of Ibrahim Bey and Hassan Aga together, to
hold a grand council of war on the plain of Damanhour.
"Do you wish to be cautious like L'Elfi? shall we retreat from the
approaching enemy?" cries Osman Bey, the crown of bravery. "Speak,
ye kachefs! We ask your advice, for not we alone, but you also, rush
into danger. Our blood and yours is to be shed alike. Therefore, let
us take counsel together. The enemy is very strong, as you know. He
is approaching in three columns. I pray you to consider and
determine quickly, as the danger increases with each minute. If the
three columns unite, the danger is multiplied; therefore, every
thing depends on quick and resolute action. Youssouf Bey, Sheik
Arnhyn informs us, is only two days' march distant--Mohammed Ali,
three. It seems to me, our plan should be to march against Youssouf,
and vanquish him before Mohammed Ali can join him; we will then
attack Mohammed Ali. Having vanquished both of them, I hardly think
Taber Pacha will have any desire to sustain the third defeat. We
will then turn our attention to Cairo, now stripped of soldiers."
The kachefs, who had listened to Bardissi's words with sparkling
eyes, spoke as one man:
"We will not retreat from the enemy like L'Elfi! Lead us against
him! We will vanquish him! We are strong and courageous! Our steeds
will bear us upon them with the wings of the wind, and our swords,
aided by those of the invisible hosts, will prove invincible. The
time has at last come to let these Turks feel that we are heroes,
and not cowards. Lead us against the enemy!"
"Then retire to rest early," cried Bardissi, his countenance radiant
with joy. "Unsaddle your horses and let them rest, too. To-morrow at
the break of day we mount, and fly with the wings of the wind to
meet the enemy. Allah and his holy hosts are with us."
"Allah and his holy hosts are with us!" is the joyous cry repeated
by the kachefs. Soon all is still in the camp of Damanhour. Men and
horses are at rest.
Bey Bardissi alone has not yet retired. He calls the Bedouin sheik,
Arnhyn, to his side. "You are brave and daring. I have work for you,
for which you shall be richly rewarded. If we are victorious, you
shall collect all the spoils you may desire from the field of
battle, and no one shall hinder you. The steeds and saddles, and the
arms and equipments of all the captured Turks, shall be yours. As
you know, three other sheiks have already applied to me, and offered
to assist with their camels and horses. You shall, however, have the
spoils of the battle-field if you will perform the service I require
of you."
"Give me your commands, master," said the Bedouin sheik, his eyes
sparkling with delight. "If you do not require me to pluck the sun
from heaven, or to lay the moon and stars at your feet, Sheik Arnhyn
will execute your commands for so rich a reward. Ah! how delighted
my daughter Butheita will be when I bring her the beautiful horses,
and glittering swords and daggers! The child loves such things. She
is not like other women, she is more like a man. How Butheita will
rejoice over the arms!"
"Then make her rejoice, Arnhyn. And now hear how you can do so. You
informed me that Youssouf and his forces were in advance of the
others, and that Mohammed Ali followed him?"
"Thus it is; a day's march in advance. But Mohammed Ali, so
everybody says, is a daring and untiring soldier. Who knows but he
may march at night, too, and unite with Youssouf?"
"You are right, Arnhyn," replied Bardissi, "and it is this that I
wish to prevent. I wish, if possible, to avoid encountering Mohammed
Ali. It is of this that I desire to speak with you. Come, let us
withdraw a little farther from the tents and discuss this matter."
All is silent. The Mamelukes and kachefs lie sleeping beside their
horses. No one hears what passes between the Mameluke bey, Osman
Bardissi, and the Bedouin sheik, Arnhyn.
They speak in whispers; no one sees Arnhyn display his white teeth
in his delight, nor sees the glad smile that suddenly lights up his
countenance.
"A splendid scheme, master. By Allah! I would do it though you had
not promised so rich a reward. I give you my word it shall be done
as you direct. We will make Sarechsme Mohammed Ali harmless."
"You will start out at once?" said Bardissi.
"Immediately, master, for I must soon return," replied Arnhyn. "By
sunrise you will come up with Youssouf, and I must be there with my
ravens to gather the spoils. I will now fly to my tent; there near
the Pyramids I shall meet my daughter Butheita, and she will arrange
the rest.
You will find me at your tent by morning. If I am not there, Osman
Bey Bardissi, you will know that the Bedouin sheik, Arnhyn, is no
longer among the living, and that the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, has
been too shrewd for him."
BOOK. IV
THE VICEROY.
CHAPTER I
BUTHEITA.
On the green fields of Gheezeh, near the verge of the yellow desert,
lies Mohammed Ali encamped with his forces. Five thousand brave
soldiers, among them the Albanian corps, the best troops of the
Turkish army, are under the command of the young sarechsme. In
advance of him, Youssouf Bey is marching upon the Mamelukes with a
corps of almost equal strength. According to the viceroy's
instructions, Mohammed Ali is to wait and see if Youssouf Bey does
not prove strong enough to vanquish the Mamelukes unaided; if this
should prove to be the case, it would not be advisable to lead a
splendid army corps into battle unnecessarily.
Mohammed Ali, however, well understood the secret meaning of the
viceroy's instructions. Youssouf Bey is his lieutenant, his
favorite, and his master is desirous that he alone shall reap the
golden fruit of victory. If he is defeated, Mohammed is to march to
Youssouf's assistance with all possible speed. The latter is a day's
march in advance, and when his messengers reach Mohammed it will
already be too late; the battle will have been lost and a new one
will have to be fought with the elated victors. All this passes
through Mohammed's mind as he sits there in the silence and solitude
of the night. All are sleeping. The warriors lie scattered over the
wide plain beside their horses, their hands on their swords. No
tents have been pitched: what need of them, the night is warm; and
on the morrow they are to be on the march again toward Damanhour?
For the sarechsme alone a tent had been pitched, which could be seen
from far out on the desert on whose verge it stood. Any one bringing
him a message would have found the white tent, surmounted by a dark-
red flag, without any difficulty. As was customary, two sentinels
stood in front of the general's tent. When all had gone to rest,
Mohammed stepped out of his tent, and told the sentinels to lie down
and go to sleep. What need of guards here in the midst of his
faithful warriors? Let them all rest, for the morrow may be a day of
great toil and fatigue. The sentinels thanked the sarechsme, and
then lay down to sleep, their muskets at their side.
Mohammed returned to his tent, lay down on his mat, and, supporting
his head on his hand was soon absorbed in thought. He lay there
gazing out into the night, considering the viceroy's plans, and also
considering whether it would be advisable to obey his instructions.
Youssouf Bey is to have all the glory of victory, but Mohammed is to
share defeat with him. If Youssouf Bey is victorious, Mohammed must
return to Cairo with his troops, and the former will have reaped all
the honors of the campaign. But if Youssouf Bey is defeated,
Mohammed will have to march to his assistance with all possible
speed, and will, nevertheless, arrive too late, when the battle is
already lost. Then a new battle will have to be fought, and the
Mamelukes, elated with their success, will hurl themselves upon his
forces, and probably rout them. Victory would then be merely
possible at best, and shall he rely on this possibility? It is to be
his first great battle, and dare he allow it to be a defeat?
But what can he do?
He considers this, and his present relations with the viceroy. Has
the time come when he can lay hands to his task with ruder touch;
will it do to substitute stern words for soft flattery? He will not
be able to decide until after this battle--that is, if he is to take
part in it at all.
While he lies there absorbed in thought, all has become still
without. The men are asleep; no one moves, no eye is open. No one
sees a dark shadow flitting across the desert toward the tents. Now
it halts near that of the sarechsme. A smaller shadow separates from
the larger one; it stoops low, and glides along slowly and
cautiously.
All are wrapped in slumber. The shadow stops before the tent; and
now something glitters, like two sparkling stars fallen from heaven.
Perhaps they are the eyes of some savage beast prowling near the
camp in search of prey.
No one sees these eyes. They are not the eyes of an animal, but of a
human being who now stands upright in front of Mohammed's tent.
Sleep has waved its black pinions over Mohammed, as he lies there
lost in thought; his senses have become gradually confused, and he,
too, now sleeps, dreaming of the viceroy, of the morrow, and of the
Mameluke bey Bardissi, whom he would so gladly call his friend.
For a moment he opens his eyes; it seems to him that he hears a
noise, a slight rustling against the canvas of the tent. Yet he sees
nothing, and all is still. It is only a dream. He closes his eyes,
the angel of sleep fans his brow, and his head sinks back upon the
mat again.
It would have been well had the sentinels stood guard. They would
not have allowed this black figure to spring into the tent with the
bound of a tiger, and then glide like the noiseless serpent to the
mat where Mohammed slept. They could have prevented this spectre
from so quickly and noiselessly binding his feet and hands with thin
ropes that he did not awake, and then suddenly and rapidly
enveloping his head with a thick cloth, and adroitly tying it in a
knot.
The sarechsme, now aroused, raises his head to hear the words: "Fear
not, your life will be spared!" murmured in his ear.
And, while these words are being whispered, he feels the cloth about
his head, and that he can utter no cry or word; he also becomes
aware that his hands and feet are securely bound.
"And to this I have come!" thinks he. "Thus am I to die, an object
of ridicule to the world and to myself!"
And, strange to say, his thoughts suddenly revert to the past. Thus
bound and gagged, had he once lain in another place. And he who
perpetrated the horrible outrage, lives in splendor, and Mohammed
has lived in vain, and must die unavenged! It is again Cousrouf
Pacha who causes him to be bound and borne out. "Whither? whither? I
ask! Do I not already know? Out to the Nile that glittered in the
sunlight before me a few hours since. Oh, had I but known that it
was to be my grave, and that Cousrouf had read and understood my
thoughts! He felt that it was he or I, that one must go down; and
now he stands secure on the heights, and I must sink down, down!"
Such are the thoughts that harrow his soul as he is lifted up by two
strong arms and borne out into the night. He feels the quick
breathing of him in whose arms he is borne; he is no light burden
even for Sheik Arnhyn's strong arms.
"How heavy you are, sarechsme!" murmurs he, smiling. "How light the
viceroy's army will be, when the heavy and distinguished sarechsme,
Mohammed Ali, is wanting!"
All is still about them. Mohammed vainly endeavors to cry out, to
release his hands; he is securely bound, and his lips can utter no
word.
They stop at last, and Arnhyn speaks, but in such low tones that
Mohammed can understand nothing. He only hears another voice
replying. Then he is lifted high and deposited on a soft cushion.
"Now, Butheita," murmured the voice of him who had borne him from
the tent, "ride on to the tent with him, and keep him securely until
our master, Osman Bey Bardissi, comes to speak with him! Guard him
well, for you must know, my daughter, that, dearly as your father
loves you, Butheita must die if he escapes. This, I swear, by Allah,
so be on your guard, my daughter!"
"You can rely on me, Father Arnhyn," replied the soft voice of a
woman. "I shall guard him as though he were my dearest treasure on
earth; he shall not escape Butheita."
"Then farewell, my child! I must now hasten back, for to-morrow will
be a day of battle. But I hope to bring you rich spoils in two days,
and Osman Bey has promised to reward me well for my work. Hold him
fast, Butheita; he is bound and gagged, and you have nothing to fear
from him. Allah be with you, my child!"
And now they ride swiftly through the night. Whither? He knows not.
He lies bound on a cushion, and only feels, by the movement of the
animal, and by the shaking and jolting his body undergoes, that he
is on the back of a dromedary. Sometimes, when, as it seems to him,
he is on the point of being hurled from his high seat, he feels
himself grasped and placed in an easier position on his cushion by
two arms, and then on they move again at a swift trot. He feels that
they are riding through the desert. The camel's feet sink deep into
the sand, and then, when the ground beneath becomes firm, their
speed is increased, and lessened when it again sinks into the sand.
To Mohammed the ride seems to have lasted an eternity already.
However, a few hours only have passed, when the dromedary halts, and
a sweet voice whispers:
"I am sorry for you; it is horrible to be borne on through the night
this way, bound and gagged, your face covered. I should like to
relieve you by removing the cloth. But if you are cruel, you might
tear my arm with your teeth."
Mohammed shakes his head slightly, and she feels the movement in her
arm that encircles his head.
"You shake your head and promise not to do so, stranger, and I will
trust you. I will free your head and lips, but I must first bind you
to the saddle, to make sure of you." She unwinds the shawl from her
delicate waist, slips it around his body, and binds him securely to
the palanquin; she then unties the knot binding the cloth that
envelops his head and passes over his mouth. The cloth falls down
and Mohammed breathes freer and looks up. It is a clear, starry
night, and Butheita's eyes are accustomed to darkness, and see as
well at night as in the daytime. She gazes down upon his
countenance, and a sunny smile illumines her features. He sees her
not; his eyes are still blinded; neither can he speak yet, he can
only breathe more freely, and he eagerly inhales the fresh night
air.
"Handsome is the stranger," said she, in a voice of wondrous
sweetness. "Already a sarechsme, and still so young! I supposed my
father had brought me an old gray-beard, and it had distressed me to
torment you so, and now I see a strong young hero, and I feel doubly
distressed at your being the prisoner of a poor girl."
He looks up, and now he sees the fair face with its starlike eyes
sparkling down upon him. The night is clear, and the yellow sand
whirled aloft by the camel's feet imparts a golden lustre to the
atmosphere; the appearance of the horizon also announces that the
rosy dawn is about to contend with the starry night. Mohammed sees
the lovely countenance with its brown tint, and its large black eyes
and crimson lips, disclosing, as they now smile, her pearly teeth.
"Pity me not, Butheita," murmured he. "To be the prisoner of a man
would put the sarechsme to shame; but to be the prisoner of a houri
of paradise, who holds him in sweet captivity, is, it seems to me,
an enviable lot."
"You speak prettily, O stranger," said she, her countenance beaming
with delight. "Your words come like music from your lips; such sweet
words I never heard before. You speak as the scha-er sings, whom I
once heard when with my father in Tantah. Oh, speak on, sing on, for
songs round from your lips!"
"If my words are songs, yours are tones of the harp," murmured he.
"Oh, tell me, Butheita, where are we going? Who has commanded you to
bear me away thus?"
"Did you not hear? I obey the commands of my father, who is in Osman
Bey's service. I do not know what they want of you, yet I believe
they fear you, and wish to keep you from taking part in the great
battle to-morrow. Yes, I know they fear you, for you are a hero.
Now, I know how a hero must look, for you are a hero, and your eyes
are as mighty as a host of armed warriors. Oh, now I understand why
Osman Bey fears you, and why he offered my father so rich a reward
to keep you from taking part in to-morrow's battle."
"That is it, that is then the reason I am led away captive," cried
Mohammed, not in threatening or lamenting tones, but joyously, for
he feels that Cousrouf has answered the question with which he had
vainly tormented himself; he had hesitated, now he feels that he has
advanced a step farther toward his aim. Now he knows what he has to
do; Fate has pointed out the road to his goal through Butheita, and
he feels that she will lead him on until he reaches the throne seen
by his mother in her dreams, and becomes the avenger of her he
loved, of his Masa.
She still gazed upon the upturned countenance of her prisoner, now
lighted up by the rosy light of the morning sun; she is struck with
the tone of his voice, and is surprised to learn that the sarechsme
is not dejected at his captivity.
"You rejoice," said she, smiling, and again displaying her beautiful
teeth. "You rejoice over your captivity."
"I should like to be such a captive forever, Butheita; it is
heavenly to be encircled in these fair arms."
"You are singing your sweet songs again, and oh, they sound so
sweet!" said she. And yet, as he attempts to lay his head closer to
her shoulder, she timidly recoils with an anxious look in her eyes.
"Not so, stranger. Honor the hospitality of my house, for my
dromedary is my house, and I wish you to be my guest. And, that you
may see that Butheita is sensible of the duties of a hostess, accept
this banana and refresh yourself; you will need it."
She takes two bananas from the bag that hangs at the side of the
saddle, and with delight Mohammed sees her peel the rich fruit,
which she hands him with a delicious smile.
"Eat, stranger; eat, and refresh yourself."
She has forgotten that he is bound, and that he cannot take the
fruit from her hand.
"This heavenly fruit must be administered by your fair hand alone,"
said he. "As my hands are bound, you must hold it to my lips
yourself. Oh, that they were to be refreshed with yours instead of
the banana!"
She smiles and looks down, blushingly. She then breaks the fruit and
brings it to his lips in little morsels. And each time he raises his
lips so high, that they touch not only the fruit but also her
delicate brown fingers. It was sweet play, and Mohammed forgets all
else. This night, minutes have been as hours to him, and now he
would have them become eternities. Lovely is this child of the
desert that bends down over him; a whole world of maidenly purity
and sweetness Fate has pointed out the road to his goal through
Butheita, and he feels that she will lead him on until he reaches
the throne seen by his mother in her dreams, and becomes the avenger
of her he loved, of his Masa.
She still gazed upon the upturned countenance of her prisoner, now
lighted up by the rosy light of the morning sun; she is struck with
the tone of his voice, and is surprised to learn that the sarechsme
is not dejected at his captivity.
"You rejoice," said she, smiling, and again displaying her beautiful
teeth. "You rejoice over your captivity."
"I should like to be such a captive forever, Butheita; it is
heavenly to be encircled in these fair arms."
"You are singing your sweet songs again, and oh, they sound so
sweet!" said she. And yet, as he attempts to lay his head closer to
her shoulder, she timidly recoils with an anxious look in her eyes.
"Not so, stranger. Honor the hospitality of my house, for my
dromedary is my house, and I wish you to be my guest. And, that you
may see that Butheita is sensible of the duties of a hostess, accept
this banana and refresh yourself; you will need it."
She takes two bananas from the bag that hangs at the side of the
saddle, and with delight Mohammed sees her peel the rich fruit,
which she hands him with a delicious smile.
"Eat, stranger; eat, and refresh yourself."
She has forgotten that he is bound, and that he cannot take the
fruit from her hand.
"This heavenly fruit must be administered by your fair hand alone,"
said he. "As my hands are bound, you must hold it to my lips
yourself. Oh, that they were to be refreshed with yours instead of
the banana!"
She smiles and looks down, blushingly. She then breaks the fruit and
brings it to his lips in little morsels. And each time he raises his
lips so high, that they touch not only the fruit but also her
delicate brown fingers. It was sweet play, and Mohammed forgets all
else. This night, minutes have been as hours to him, and now he
would have them become eternities. Lovely is this child of the
desert that bends down over him; a whole world of maidenly purity
and sweetness permitted to wander freely through the desert, and not
cooped up in the second apartment of the tent, and not compelled to
cover my face with a veil. However, when I ride with father to
Tantah, then, O stranger, I dress myself up as the women of the
cities do! Then I wear a long silk dress and a splendid veil, and
color my lips and hands with henna!"
"That is to say, Butheita, you make of the houri of paradise an
ordinary human being. I should not like to see you when you look
like other women. You are the Queen of the Desert, Butheita."
"How do you know that? So am I called by the Bedouins who are my
father's subjects. Yes, they are very respectful to their sheik's
daughter, and call me Queen of the Desert. They sometimes say,"
continued she, smiling: "'Her countenance shines like the sun,
enkindling in flames the hearts of all who approach her.' I,
however, hold myself aloof from them, and do not listen to what they
say, else my father would become angry, and would deprive me of my
liberty to roam about as I please. And now you know all, stranger,
and know why I may not kiss you, though I would gladly do something
to please the poor prisoner; but I have promised this to my father
and to myself. Therefore, no more of this. Here we must halt. Look
at the sublime image that stands there so grandly, and throws its
black shadow far out over the yellow sand. That is the true Queen of
the Desert. Let me turn the animal so that you can see our queen."
Mohammed looked up and bowed his head in awe before the monster
image that stood before him. He saw a human face and a mighty figure
towering before him in gigantic proportions. Yes, it was a human
countenance! From out those eyes, which seemed to compass a whole
world within their deep hollows, the grandeur and sublimity of the
human mind appeared to speak to him. What majestic thought was
reflected in that massive forehead? The eloquent mouth seemed to
announce the grand mystery of the universe. The whole mighty
countenance seemed to contain a heaven of sublime peace, and to be
radiant with a happiness unknown to the human breast on earth, for
man has suffered and suffers. Doubt, anxiety, care, and misery, have
sojourned in every mortal breast; but this countenance, that towers
like a mountain in its divine majesty, knows nothing of human doubt
and suffering. Its face is radiant with divine, eternal
tranquillity--with the peace of the universe.
"How grand, how sublime!" murmured Mohammed, gazing fixedly at the
colossal image that has for thousands of years looked on man, and
smiled on him from out the depths of its unfathomable eyes. The
sphinx has looked calmly down upon generation after generation, upon
men of every faith and religion, and has seen them pass away.
Heathens have become Christians, Jews, Mohammedans, and the latter
in their turn have become converted to other faiths, and change upon
change has taken place. The sphinx has looked down upon all this!
itself divine, unchangeable in the midst of all that has passed and
passes away.
"See," murmured Butheita, "this is the Queen of the Desert. She is
the holy sphinx, before whom men and women have fallen in the dust
for thousands of years, and before whom kings and emperors prostrate
themselves to this day. Thus spoke the scha-er whom I heard when
with my father in Tantah a short time since: `He who approaches the
protecting goddess of mankind must fall down in the dust before her,
and worship Allah and the saints.'
"Kneel down, my dromedary, kneel down, my Alpha!" and she draws in
her reins, repeating the words in imperious tones. The animal
understands her, and sinks gravely upon its knees. Butheita bounds
down from her seat with the lightness of the gazelle, and bows low
before the sphinx, her arms crossed on her breast.
From the back of the dromedary, where he lies bound, her prisoner
looks down with admiration upon the lovely girlish figure that skips
lightly across the sand to the foot of the godlike figure. How small
she appears beside the mighty image, like a flower blooming at its
feet.
Butheita kneels down before the sphinx and murmurs a prayer for
protection for herself and father, for the tent in which they dwell,
for the dromedary, and for the goats; and finally also for the
stranger whom she is about to lead to her tent. "Grant, 0 Allah,
that I may be mild, and that he may not feel his fetters too
severely! And you, O holy goddess of the desert, grant that
Butheita's heart may remain pure and strong, and that she may be
enabled to keep the promise made to her father!"
As she murmurs these words a slight tremor possessed itself of her
delicate figure, and piously and timidly she looks up into the
illimitable, unfathomable eyes of the sphinx, that gaze out upon the
whole world. Then she rises and smilingly salutes once more with her
little brown hand the Queen of the Desert, and, springing lightly
upon the back of her dromedary, grasps the reins.
Butheita's countenance now wears a serious expression. It seems she
has brought solemn thoughts with her from the goddess of the desert,
and from time to time she casts a timid glance at the prisoner, who
lies bound before her. The dromedary moves on at a uniform speed.
Those it is bearing on ward speak but little. Butheita's heart is
oppressed; the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, is thoughtful and grave.
Once Butheita raises her arm and points to some towering objects
defined sharply against the sky in the distance.
"See, stranger, see; those are the grand monuments of our kings, the
Pharaohs, the pyramids, and there lies Sakkara, where the graves of
the holy oxen are to be seen. We are almost at our journey's end.
There lies the village of Petresin. Its inhabitants still sleep, and
the doors of the huts are closed: they do not see us. That is well,
that is necessary; my father said no one must know that we are
taking you away a prisoner. Do you see that little spot on the verge
of the dessert? That is my father's tent."
Butheita patted her dromedary on the neck with her little hand,
urging it to greater speed. Like an arrow they flew across the sand
until they had reached her father's tent. Butheita drew in her reins
at the door and commanded the animal to kneel down.
"Stranger, we are at our journey's end! At the threshold of our
tent, Butheita bids you welcome, blessed be your entrance into our
house!"
She quickly loosens the shawl that binds him to the saddle, and
before he is aware of what she is doing lifts him in her arms.
Lightly, as though he were a plaything, she bears him into the inner
apartment of the tent, where she smilingly deposits him on a mat.
"Blessed be your entrance into my tent! Now refresh yourself with
repose after your long ride. I am going out to prepare your
breakfast."
He follows Butheita with eager eyes, as she steps into the other
apartment of the tent. Forgotten are all the schemes and thoughts
that ordinarily occupy him day and night. Forgotten are the past and
future; he now lives for the present only. May the sun mercifully
stand still, and this hour prove an eternity! Why occupy himself
with thoughts of the future, the present is so beautiful, so
heavenly? Oh, that it could last forever! But no! a cloud passes
over his brow; he remembers--
"No! Let the present pass rapidly," said he. "I am a prisoner, and
how would my soldiers laugh to see the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali,
bound and a captive in the tent of a Bedouin chieftain!"
He knew that Butheita had remained in the other apartment and heard
his words. She quickly went to him, profound sorrow depicted in her
charming countenance.
"They would laugh at you, sarechsme? Oh, how sorry I should be to
have them do so! True, it is unpleasant to be a prisoner. Yet, you
must know that my father is highly esteemed; he is the first man of
the village. O sarechsme, the Bedouins call him their father, their
protector, and the Mamelukes are proud of his friendship; and it was
out of love for them that he made you a prisoner. If you are
unhappy, oh, forgive poor Butheita, who was compelled to obey her
father's commands! Oh, do not be angry with her!"
"I am not angry with you," said he, gently. "Yet consider, is it not
hard and shameful for me, a man and a soldier, to lie here bound
hand and foot?"
Her countenance lighted up with joy. "Yes, I understand that," said
she, thoughtfully. "It pains me to the soul, not to be able to
lessen your misery, to improve your condition. Yet," she suddenly
continued, "I can and I will relieve you."
"That you can, if you will," murmured he. "Seat your self beside me,
Butheita. Let me hear your voice. Tell me the sweet history of your
heart. Remain with me till your father comes. While listening I
shall forget all shame and disgrace, and rejoice only in your
presence. It would seem as though, a good spirit had led me into
another world, where an angel was bowed down over me, to whom I
looked up in sweet ecstasy!"
"No, it will only be a poor child of the desert, who sits beside
you," said Butheita, smiling. "Only look at poor, miserable me.
There is nothing beautiful or radiant about me, proud stranger! Let
me go, you would die of hunger and thirst if I remained here, and it
would be shameful, too, if I should neglect the duty of hospitality
toward my guest. But I will tell you what I can and will do! You
shall not lie there bound. I will not have it so, Mohammed Ali. Give
me your sacred word that you will not leave, but will remain here
until my father comes for you. Give me your word, and I will untie
the cords that bind your hands and feet. Give me your word."
He looks at her in astonishment.
"Do you still have such faith in man's promises that you believe I
would keep my word if I gave it?"
"Yes," said she, smiling; "I do; this would be a horrible world if
one could not. My father has often said to me: 'When a man has given
his word he keeps it, though the consequence should be death. Thus a
truly brave man acts; only cowards break their word.'"
"Then you consider me a truly brave man, Butheita, and not a
coward?"
"It is only necessary to look at you, stranger," said she, with a
winning smile, "to feel in the depths of one's heart that you are a
man, and no coward. Give me your word, and you are unfettered. Give
me your word that you will not leave."
"Well," said he, gazing at her joyously, "I give you my word, as a
man! I swear by Allah, and the prophet, and by my own honor, I will
not leave here until your father comes and says that I may, and
states the conditions. I will, if you will permit me, remain with
you in the mean while, and do nothing but look at you. I will be
your slave; drink the sweet dew from your lips, and read your
commands in your eyes. Tell me, pearl of women, will you accept me
as your slave?"
Without answering his question, she knelt down blushingly, and
untied the cords that bound his hands and feet. "Now, stand up, a
free man!"
He arose, and with a feeling of intense relief, stretched out the
hands that ached from their long confinement, and extended his arms.
He would gladly have clasped the girl in their embrace, but, with
the grace and ease of a gazelle, she sprang back out of his reach to
the door of the tent, and looked at him threateningly.
"Mohammed Ali, if you abuse your freedom, you are not the man I took
you to be."
He bowed his head in silence. "You are right, Butheita, forgive me!
I submit to the will of the desert queen; I am your slave, and await
your commands; command me, and I will humbly obey."
He looked at her inquiringly. Butheita's large black eyes gazed at
him with a soft expression, and again a tremor agitated her gentle
being.
"I desire nothing more, sarechsme," said she, timidly, "than that
you remain here in the rear apartment of the tent, and I beg you,
should any one come, to remain here quietly; as it is that place
generally reserved for women, no one will dare to enter it. I dwell
in it alone, for my father is not fond of women! He says they are
talkative and quarrelsome, vain and lazy, too, and he has had enough
of them. Twelve wives has he brought to his tent, one after the
other, but after a short time he sent every one of them home to her
father. I am the daughter of his first wife, and my father loves me
more than he has ever loved any of them; and he wants no woman in
his tent but his Butheita. Nor do I wish to have any other woman
here. I can attend to father's household affairs quite well, alone.
I milk the goats, make the butter, and bake the bread. I also spin
the wool of our black sheep, and still have plenty of time left to
knit the shawls my father needs."
"So industrious, Butheita? Happy and enviable will the man be who
shall some day lead your father's daughter to his home!"
"You need not envy him," said she, quickly, "there will be no such
man. It is with me as with my father; he loves only me, and I only
him. No man shall ever lead me to his tent as his wife!"
"Butheita will say that until she loves some man," replied Mohammed,
looking deeply into her eyes. "Would Butheita one day follow me to
my tent--me?"
She did not reply. She drew back in alarm, and again she blushed
deeply, quite unlike a child of the desert, but after the fashion of
a city girl, and drew aside the curtain that divided the tent.
"I am only going to prepare your breakfast."
He did as she had requested, and retired to the second apartment of
the tent, to patiently await Butheita's return. There he sat
absorbed in thought, seemingly forgetful that he was the sarechsme,
Mohammed Ali, and a captive, for a happy smile rested on his lips.
His thoughts were beyond the sea, in the distant Cavalla. Whom did
he see there? It seems to him that Masa, stands before him with her
large soft eyes, and sweet smile; and Masa's image is strangely
interwoven with that of the Bedouin-child, Butheita. The two fair
forms were blended, and it did not displease him. Yet another face
is there. It regards him with a grave yet kindly expression. It is
not the face of a young girl; sweet and youthful fresh ness and love
are not in its features, and yet it is a loved face, that of his
wife Ada, the mother of his children. No, he has not forgotten her!
How could it be possible after living side by side in peace and
harmony for almost ten years! How could it be possible to forget her
who had given him three loved lives? Ah, his beloved boys, how his
heart yearns after them! Yet his heart yearns for her too, for his
wife.
For almost ten years this quiet-loving woman has sat by his side,
and he will never put her away from him, never for get her, the
mother of his children. Years pass rapidly, but a man's heart does
not grow old. A man's heart is ever young, ever fresh for a new
love, and every love seems to him to be the first.
If Butheita were not the daughter of a Bedouin chieftain, but a
Georgian or Circassian slave, he would give for her all the riches
he possesses ; the beautiful house and furniture given him by
Cousrouf Pacha. He would make her his wife, cost what it might. "I
thank you, O Mohammed, thou great prophet, who, reading the heart of
man, allows him to have four wives. I would Butheita were my second
wife."
The curtain of the tent is drawn aside, and Butheita enters, a
wooden waiter in her hand. All that she has to set before her guest,
the beautiful dates and bananas, the black bread, the butter, all
are nicely arranged on the waiter, which she now smilingly deposits
at the feet of her guest.
"Now seat yourself on the mat, beloved guest, and refresh yourself
with what poor Butheita has to offer you. Pray take the bread and
break it; and let us eat it together in token that we are friends,
and that you are sacred to me."
"And you are sacred to me," replies Mohammed, gravely, as he takes
up the black bread and breaks it. Together they eat of it, and then
sit down beside each other, and refresh themselves with Butheita's
daintily arranged fruits and goat's milk. Butheita tells him in her
charming way of her housekeeping, of her sheep and goats, and how
glad they were when she returned.
Mohammed has forgotten his ambitious plans, all the thousand wishes
that agitated his heart at other times. For the moment he is once
more the boy of Cavalla, communing with Nature in innocence and
joyousness, for to him Butheita's fair form now represents Nature.
It is not indeed Nature itself that charms him, but Nature's fair
daughter, Butheita. He must and will resist the charm, for he has
now broken bread, and eaten fruit with her. He is her guest, and he
must hold his young hostess sacred.
He forces himself to assume a grave manner, and directs his thoughts
to turn from her fair presence and occupy themselves with the events
that have taken place, and the great wrong done him. Perhaps at this
moment a battle is raging on the plain of Damanbour, and Youssouf
Bey is perhaps Victorious over the Mamelukes. What will his fate be
in that case? will not the defeated enemy avenge themselves cruelly
on him? But if, on the other hand, Youssouf has been routed and put
to flight, then woe to you alike, Mohammed! Youssouf will then
complain of him to Cousrouf Pacha, and he will be accused of
treason-yes, of treason, if he does not confess that he is a
prisoner. But, if he confesses this, he will become the laughing-
stock of the whole army. Yes, in Butheita's presence all that was
painful and disagreeable in his position had been forgotten. Now he
endeavors to force his thoughts to consider these things. Away with
thoughts of thee, Queen of the Desert!
He rises from the mat, and thanks his hostess for the repast in set
phrases, and with a cold manner; he begs her to pay no attention to
him, and not to allow herself to be disturbed in her household
occupations by him. Butheita looks at him with astonishment-an
expression of offended pride in her countenance.
"You desire to be alone, stranger? I can well understand that my
foolish words annoy you. I will leave you alone, sarechsme. I see
well you are a proud man, and it does not seem proper to you to be
alone with a Bedouin's daughter long. I can not prevent it; forgive
me. I will attend to my household affairs, as you suggest. I rely on
your promise, stranger, not to leave the inner apartment."
"You can rely on my word," said he, earnestly. "I am your prisoner,
your slave. I am so more completely than you think."
A charming smile again lights up her brown countenance. With a
joyous nod of her head, she bounds out of the tent.