More than thirty years have elapsed since, on a summer evening, the
tents of an Arab encampment might have been seen dotting the plain which
forms the western boundary of the Egyptian province of Bahyrah, a
district bordering on the great Libyan desert, and extending northward
as far as the shore of the Mediterranean.
The western portion of this province has been for many years, and
probably still is, the camping-ground of the powerful and warlike tribe
of the “Sons of Ali”; a branch of which tribe, acknowledging as its
chief Sheik Sâleh el-Ghazy, occupied the encampment above referred
to.[1]
The evening was calm and still, and lovely as childhood’s sleep: no
sound of rolling wheel, or distant anvil, or busy mill, or of the
thousand other accessories of human labour, intruded harshly on the ear.
Within the encampment there was indeed the “watch-dog’s honest bark,”
the voices of women and children, mingled with the deeper tones of the
evening prayer uttered by many a robed figure worshipping towards the
east, but beyond it nought was to be heard save the tinkling of the
bells of the home-coming flocks, and the soft western breeze whispering
among the branches of the graceful palms its joy at having passed the
regions of dreary sand. It seemed as if Nature herself were about to
slumber, and were inviting man to share her rest.
In front of his tent sat Sheik Sâleh, on a Turkish carpet, smoking his
pipe in apparent forgetfulness that his left arm was bandaged and
supported by a sling.
At a little distance from him were his two favourite mares, each with a
foal at her side, and farther off two or three score of goats, tethered
in line to a _kels_,[2] surrendering their milky stock to the expert
fingers of two of the inmates of the Sheik’s harem; beyond these,
several hundred sheep were taking their last nibble at the short herbs
freshened by the evening dew; while in the distance might be seen a
string of camels wending their slow and ungainly way homeward from the
edge of the desert: the foremost ridden by an urchin not twelve years
old, carolling at the utmost stretch of his lungs an ancient Arab ditty
addressed by some despairing lover to the gazelle-eyes of his mistress.
The Sheik sat listlessly, allowing his eyes to wander over these
familiar objects, and to rest on the golden clouds beyond, which crowned
the distant sandhills of the Libyan desert. The neglected pipe was
thrown across his knee, and he was insensibly yielding to the slumberous
influence of the hour, when his repose was suddenly disturbed by the
sound of voices in high altercation, and a few minutes afterwards his
son Hassan, a lad nearly sixteen years of age, stood before him, his
countenance bearing the traces of recent and still unsubdued passion,
while the blood trickled down his cheek.
Although scarcely emerged from boyhood, his height, the breadth of his
chest, and the muscular development of his limbs gave the impression of
his being two or three years older than he really was; in dress he
differed in no wise from the other Arab lads in the encampment, nor did
his complexion vary much from theirs—bronzed by constant exposure to
weather and sun; his eyes were not like those of the Arab race in
general—rather small, piercing, and deep-set—but remarkably large, dark,
and expressive, shaded by lashes of unusual length; a high forehead, a
nose rather Greek than Roman in its outline, and a mouth expressive of
frank mirth or settled determination, according to the mood of the hour,
completed the features of a countenance which, though eminently
handsome, it was difficult to assign to any particular country or race.
Such was the youth who now stood before his father, his breast still
heaving with indignation.
“What has happened, my son?” said the Sheik; “whence this anger, and
this blood on your cheek?”
“Son!” repeated the youth, in a tone in which passion was mingled with
irony.
“Whence this blood?” again demanded the Sheik, surprised at an emotion
such as he had never before witnessed in the youth.
“They say it is the blood of a bastard,” replied Hassan, his dark eye
gleaming with renewed indignation.
“What is that!” shrieked Khadijah, the wife of the Sheik, suddenly
appearing from an inner compartment of the tent, where she had overheard
what had passed.
“Peace, woman,” said the Sheik authoritatively; “and prepare a plaster
for Hassan’s wound.” Then turning to the latter, he added, in a milder
tone: “My son, remember the proverb, that patience is the key to
contentment, while anger opens the door to repentance. Calm your spirit,
and tell me plainly what has happened. Inshallah, we will find a
remedy.”
Hassan, having by this time recovered his composure, related how he had
been engaged in taking some horses to the water, when a dispute arose
between him and a young man named Youssuf Ebn-Solyman, in the course of
which the latter said to him—
“How dare you speak thus to me, you who are nothing but an Ebn-Haram?”
To this insult Hassan replied by a blow; Youssuf retaliated by striking
him on the temple with a stone; upon which, after a violent struggle,
Hassan succeeded in inflicting on his opponent a severe beating.
“And now,” said the youth, in concluding his narrative, “I wish to know
why I have been called by this hateful name—a name that disgraces both
you and my mother? I will not endure it, and whoever calls me so, be he
boy or man, I will have his blood.”
“Are you sure,” inquired the Sheik, “that he said _Hh_aram and not
Heram?”[3]
“I am sure,” replied Hassan, “for he repeated it twice with a tone of
contempt.”
“Then,” said the Sheik, “you were right to beat him; but the name, among
mischievous people, will occasion you many quarrels: henceforth in the
tribe you shall be called Hassan el-Gizèwi.”
“Why should I be called El-Gizèwi?” said the youth. “What have we,
Oulâd-Ali, to do with Gizeh and the Pyramids?”[4]
After some hesitation the Sheik replied, “We were passing through that
district when you were born; hence the name properly belongs to you.”
“Father,” said Hassan, fixing his dark eyes earnestly on the Sheik’s
countenance, “there is some secret here; I read it in your face. If I am
a child of shame let me know the worst, that I may go far away from the
tents of the Oulâd-Ali.”
Sheik Sâleh was more a man of deeds than of words, and this direct
appeal from Hassan sorely perplexed him; thinking it better at all
events to gain time for reflection, he replied—
“To-morrow you shall be told why you were called Ebn el-Heram, and why
there was no shame connected with the name. Now go into the tent; tell
Khadijah to dress your wound, and then to prepare my evening meal.”
Accustomed from his childhood to pay implicit obedience to parental
orders, Hassan retired into the inner tent, while the Sheik resumed his
pipe and his meditations. The result of them may be seen from a
conversation which he held with Khadijah when the other members of the
family had retired to rest.
“What is to be done in this matter?” said the Sheik to his spouse; “you
heard the questions which Hassan asked?”
“I did,” she replied. “By your blessed head it is better now to tell him
all the truth; the down is on his lip—he is no longer a child; his
curiosity is excited; several of our tribe know the secret, and,
although far away now, they may return, and he would learn it from
them.”
“That is true,” replied the Sheik; “yet if he knows that he is not our
child, he will not remain here—he will desire to find his real parents;
and I would rather part with my two best mares than with him. I love him
as if he were my son.”
Now Khadijah, who had three children still living—two girls, of whom the
eldest was fourteen, and a little boy aged eight years—did not love
Hassan quite as she loved her own children; although she had nurtured
and brought him up, a mother’s instincts prevailed, and she was somewhat
jealous of the hold which he had taken on the affections of the Sheik.
Under these impressions she replied—
“The truth cannot be long kept concealed from him; is it not better to
tell him at once? Every man must follow his destiny; that which is
written must come to pass.”
“I like not his going away,” said Sheik Sâleh moodily; “for that boy, if
he remain with us, will be an honour to our tent and to our tribe. There
is not one of his age who can run, or ride, or use a lance like him. In
the last expedition that I made against the tribe of Sammalous did he
not prevail on me to take him, by assuring me that he only wished to
follow at a distance with a spare horse in case of need; and did he not
bring me that spare horse in the thickest of the fight, and strike down
a Sammalous who was going to pierce me with his lance after I had
received this wound?” Here the Sheik cast his eyes down upon his wounded
arm, muttering, “A brave boy! a brave boy!”
Khadijah felt the truth of his observation, but she returned to the
charge, saying—
“Truly you men are wise in all that concerns horses, hunting, and
fighting; but in other matters, Allah knows that you have little sense.
Do you not see that the youth already doubts that he is our son, and you
have never adopted him according to the religious law.[5] He will
shortly learn the truth, others will know it too: then what will the men
and women of the tribe say of us, who allow this stranger in blood to
dwell familiarly in our tent with Temimah our daughter, whose days of
marriage should be near at hand?”
Khadijah was not wrong in believing that this last argument would touch
her husband in a tender point, for he was very proud of Temimah, and
looked forward to see her married into one of the highest families in
the tribe; he therefore gave up the contest with a sigh of
dissatisfaction, and consented that Khadijah should on the following
morning inform Hassan of all that she knew of his early history.
Now that she had gained the victory, Khadijah, like many other
conquerors, was at a loss how to improve it. She was essentially a
good-hearted woman, and although while Hassan’s interests came into
collision with those of her own offspring, Nature pleaded irresistibly
for the latter, still she called to mind how good and affectionate
Hassan had always been to herself, how he had protected and taken care
of her little son, and tears came into her eyes when she reflected that
the disclosure of the morrow must not only give him pain, but probably
cause a final separation.
The hours of night passed slowly away, but anxiety and excitement kept
unclosed the eyes of Hassan and Khadijah: the one hoping, yet fearing to
penetrate the mystery of his birth, the other unwilling to banish from
her sight one whom, now that she was about to lose him, she felt that
she loved more than she had been aware of.
The hours of night! Brief words that should indicate a short space of
universal tranquillity and repose, yet what a countless multitude of
human joys, sorrows, and vicissitudes do they embrace! In the forest and
in the wilderness they look upon the prowling wolf and the tiger
stealing towards their unconscious prey, upon the lurking assassin, the
noiseless ambush, and the stealthy band about to fall with war-shout and
lance on the slumbering caravan. In the densely peopled city they look
not on the sweet and refreshing rest which the God of nature meant them
to distil from their balmy wings, but on gorgeous rooms blazing with
light, in which love and hate, jealousy and envy, joy and sorrow, all
clothed with silk, with jewels, and with smiles, are busy as the
minstrel’s hand and the dancer’s feet; on halls where the circling cup,
and laugh, and song proclaim a more boisterous revelry; on the riotous
chambers of drunkenness; on those yet lower dens of vice into which a
ray of God’s blessed sun is never permitted to shine, where the frenzied
gambler stakes on the cast of a die the last hopes of his neglected
family; on the squalid haunts of misery, to whose wretched occupants the
gnawing pangs of hunger deny even the temporary forgetfulness of sleep.
Yes, on these and a thousand varieties of scenes like these, do the
hours of night look down from their starry height, wondering and weeping
to see how their peaceful influence is marred by the folly and depravity
of man.
Agreeably to Arab custom, Khadijah rose with the early dawn, and having
seen that her daughters and her two slave-girls were busied in their
respective morning tasks, she called Hassan into the inner tent in order
to give him the information which he had been awaiting through a
sleepless night of anxiety; but as the good woman accompanied her tale
with many irrelevant digressions, it will be more brief and intelligible
if we relate its substance in a narrative form.
A little more than fifteen years previous to the opening of our tale,
Khadijah, with her husband and a score of his followers, had been paying
a visit to a friendly tribe camped in the neighbourhood of Sakkarah.[6]
On returning northward, through the district of Ghizeh, near the Great
Pyramid, her child was born, who only survived a few days. It was buried
in the desert, and as her health had suffered from the shock, Sheik
Sâleh remained a short time in the neighbourhood, to allow her to
recruit her strength.
One evening she had strolled from his tent, and after wailing and
weeping a while over the grave of her little one, she went on and sat
down on the projecting base-stone of the Great Pyramid. While gazing on
the domes and minarets of the “Mother of the world,”[7] gilded by the
rays of a setting sun, her ears caught the sound of a horseman
approaching at full speed. So rapid was his progress that ere she had
time to move he was at her side.
“Bedouin woman,” he said to her, in a hurried and agitated voice, “are
you a mother?”
“I am,” she replied. “At least, I have been.”
“El-hamdu-lillah, praise be to God,” said the horseman. Dismounting, he
drew from under his cloak a parcel wrapped in a shawl and placed it
gently beside her at the base of the pyramid, then vaulting on his
horse, dashed his spurs into its flank, and disappeared with the same
reckless speed that had marked his approach.
The astonished Khadijah was still following with her eye his retreating
figure when a faint cry caught her ear. What mother’s ear was ever deaf
to that sound? Hastily withdrawing the shawl, she found beneath it an
infant whose features and dress indicated a parentage of the higher
class. Around his neck was an amulet of a strange and antique fashion;
round his body was a sash, in the folds of which was secured a purse
containing forty Venetian sequins, and attached to the purse was a strip
of parchment, on which was written the following sentence from the
traditions of the Prophet, “Blessed be he that gives protection to the
foundling.”
Hassan, who had been listening with “bated breath” to Khadijah’s
narrative, and who had discovered as easily as the reader that he was
himself the “Child of the Pyramid,” suddenly asked her—
“Was that horseman my father?”
“I know not,” she replied, “for we have never seen or heard of him since
that day. Nevertheless, I think it must have been your father, for I
could see that, just before springing on his horse to depart, he turned
and gave such a look on the shawl-wrapper that——”
“What kind of look was it?” said Hassan hastily, interrupting her.
“I cannot describe it,” said Khadijah. “It might be love, it might be
sorrow; but my heart told me it was the look of a father.”
“What was the horseman like?” said Hassan.
“I had not time nor opportunity to examine closely either his features
or his dress,” replied Khadijah; “and were he to come into the tent now
I should not know him again. But he seemed a tall, large man, and I
guessed him to be a Mameluke.”
Khadijah’s narrative had deeply interested and agitated Hassan’s
feelings. As he left the tent and emerged into the open air, he mentally
exclaimed, “Sheik Sâleh is not my father; but Allah be praised that I am
not the son of a fellah.[8] Unknown father, if thou art still on earth,
I will find and embrace thee.”
During the whole of that day he continued silent and thoughtful. He
cared not to touch food, and towards evening he strolled beyond the
borders of the encampment, lost in conjecture on his mysterious birth
and parentage. Ambition began to stir in his breast, and visions of
horsetails[9] and diamond-hilted swords floated before his eyes. While
engaged in these day-dreams of fancy, he had unconsciously seated
himself on a small mound near where Temimah, the eldest daughter of the
Sheik, was tending some goats, which she was about to drive back to the
tents. With the noiseless step and playful movement of a kitten, she
stole gently behind him, and covering his eyes with her hands, said,
“Whose prisoner are you now?”
“Temimah’s,” replied the youth; “what does she desire of her captive?”
“Tell me,” said the girl, seating herself beside him, “why is my brother
sad and silent to-day; has anything happened?”
“Much has happened,” replied Hassan, with a grave and abstracted air.
“Come now, my brother,” said Temimah, “this is unkind; what is this
secret that you keep from your sister?”
“One which will cause me to leave you,” answered Hassan, still in the
same musing tone.
“Leave us!” she exclaimed. “Where to go, and when to return? Do not
speak these unkind words. You know how our father loves you—how we all
love you. Brother, why do you talk of leaving us?” While thus speaking,
Temimah threw her arms round his neck and kissed his eyes, while tears
stood in her own.
Touched by her affection and her sorrow, Hassan replied in a gentler
tone—
“Temimah, I have no father, no mother, no sister here.” He then told her
the story of his infancy, as related by her mother, showing that he
could claim no relationship in blood to the Sheik Sâleh and his family.
As he continued his narrative, poor Temimah’s heart swelled with
contending emotions. She learned that the playmate and companion of her
childhood, the brother of whom she was so proud, and to whom she looked
for support in all her trials, and whom she loved she knew not how much,
was a stranger to her in blood. A new and painful consciousness awoke
within her. Under the influence of this undefined sensation, her arm
dropped from Hassan’s neck, but her hand remained clasped in his, and on
it fell her tears hot and fast, while she sobbed violently.
Temimah was more than a year younger than Hassan, yet her heart
whispered to her secret things, arising from the late disclosure, which
were unknown to his. Although the idea of parting from her gave him
pain, he could still caress her, call her sister, and bid her not to
grieve for a separation which might be temporary, while she felt that
henceforth she was divided by an impassable gulf from the brother of her
childhood.
Slowly they returned to the encampment, and Temimah took the earliest
opportunity of retiring into her tent to talk with her own sad heart in
solitude.
Did she love him less since she learnt that he was not her brother? Did
she love him more? These were the questions which the poor girl asked
herself with trembling and with tears; her fluttering heart gave her no
reply.
After these events it is not to be wondered at if Hassan permitted but a
few days to elapse ere he presented himself before Sheik Sâleh, and
expressed his wish to leave the tents of the Oulâd-Ali, in order to seek
for his unknown parents: the Sheik being prepared for this request, and
having made up his mind to acquiesce in it, offered but a faint
opposition, notwithstanding his unwillingness to part with one whom he
had so long considered and loved as a son.
“By Allah!” said he to the youth, “if destiny has written it, so it must
be. My advice is, then, that you go to Alexandria, where I have a friend
who, although a merchant and living in a town, has a good heart, and
will be kind to you for my sake. I will write to him, and he will find
you some employment. While you are with him you can make inquiry about
the history and the families of the residents, Beys, Mamelukes, &c., and
learn if any of them were at Cairo sixteen years ago. If your search
there is without success, you will find means to go to Cairo and other
parts of Egypt, and, Inshallah! the wish of your heart will be
fulfilled.”
Hassan thanked his foster-father, who forthwith desired a scribe to be
called to write from his dictation the required letter, which bore the
address, “To my esteemed and honoured friend, Hadji Ismael, merchant in
Alexandria.”
The simple preparations requisite for Hassan’s departure were soon made,
and all the articles found upon him when he had been left at the foot of
the pyramid, and which had been carefully preserved by Khadijah, were
made over to him, and secured within the folds of his girdle and his
turban; a horse of the Sheik’s was placed at his disposal, and he was to
be accompanied by two of the tribe, charged with the purchase of coffee,
sugar, and sundry articles of dress.
When the day fixed for his departure arrived, his foster-parents
embraced him tenderly, and the Sheik said to him, “Remember, Hassan, if
ever you wish to return, my tent is your home, and you will find in me a
father.”
Temimah, foolish girl, did not appear; she said she was not well; but
she sent him her farewell and her prayers for his safety through her
little sister, who kissed him, crying bitterly. Thus did Hassan take
leave of the tents of the Oulâd-Ali, and enter on the wide world in
search of a father who had apparently little claim on his affection; but
youth is hopeful against hope, so Hassan journeyed onward without
accident, until he reached Alexandria, where his two companions went
about their respective commissions, and he proceeded to deliver his
letter to Hadji Ismael, the merchant.
Hassan had no difficulty in finding the house of Hadji Ismael, the
wealthy Arab merchant, situated in a quarter which was then near the
centre of the town, though only a few hundred yards distant from the
head of the harbour, known as the Old Port.
Alexandria being now as familiar to the world of travellers and readers
as Genoa or Marseilles, a description of its site and appearance is
evidently superfluous; only it must be remembered that at this time it
wore something of an oriental aspect, which has since been obliterated
by the multitude of European houses which have been constructed, and the
multitude of European dresses which crowd its bazaars.
The great square, which is now almost exclusively occupied by the
residences of European consuls and merchants, was then an open area in
which soldiery and horses were exercised; and in place of the scores of
saucy donkey-boys who now crowd around the doors of every inn, dinning
into the ear of steamboat and railroad travellers their unvarying cry of
“Very good donkey, sir,” and fighting for customers with energy equal to
that of Liverpool porters, there were then to be seen long strings of
way-worn camels wending their solemn way through the narrow streets,
whilst others of their brethren were crouched before some merchant’s
door, uttering, as their loads were removed, that wonderful stomachic
groan which no one who has heard it can ever forget, and which is said
to have inspired and taught to the sons of Ishmael the pronunciation of
one of the letters of their alphabet—a sound which I never heard
perfectly imitated by any European.[10]
Harsh and dissonant as may be the voice of the camel to our Frankish
ears, it was infinitely less so to those of Hassan than were the mingled
cries of the Turks, Italians, and Greeks assembled in the courtyard of
Hadji Ismael’s house, busily employed in opening, binding, and marking
bales and packages of every size and class. Pushing his way through them
as best he might, he addressed an elderly man whom he saw standing at
the door of an inner court, and whom he knew by his dress to be a
Moslem, and after giving him the customary greeting, he asked if he
could have speech of Hadji Ismael. Upon being informed that the youth
had a letter which he was charged to deliver to the merchant in person,
the head clerk (for such he proved to be) desired Hassan to follow him
to the counting-house.
On reaching that sanctum, Hassan found himself in a dimly lighted room
of moderate dimensions, the sides of which were lined with a goodly
array of boxes; at the farther end of the room was seated a venerable
man with a snow-white beard, who was so busily employed in dictating a
letter to a scribe that he did not at first notice the entrance of his
chief clerk, who remained silently standing near the door with his young
companion; but when the letter was terminated the merchant looked up,
and motioned to them to advance. Mohammed, so was the chief clerk named,
told him that the youth was bearer of a letter addressed to him by one
of his friends among the Arabs. On a signal from Hadji Ismael, Hassan,
with that respect for advanced age which is one of the best and most
universal characteristics of Bedouin education, came forward, and having
kissed the hem of his robe, delivered the letter, and retiring from the
carpet on which the old man was sitting, stood in silence with his arms
folded on his breast.[11]
The Hadji having read the letter slowly and carefully through, fixed his
keen grey eyes upon Hassan, and continued his scrutiny for some seconds,
as if, before addressing him, he would scan every feature of his
character. The survey did not seem to give him dissatisfaction, for
assuredly he had never looked upon a countenance on which ingenuous
modesty, intelligence, and fearlessness were more harmoniously combined.
“You are welcome,” said the old man, breaking silence; “you bring me
news of the health and welfare of an old friend—may his days be
prolonged.”
“And those of the wisher,” replied the youth.[12]
“Your name is Hassan, I see,” continued the Hadji. “How old are you?”
“Just sixteen years,” he replied.
“Sixteen years!” exclaimed the Hadji, running his eye over the
commanding figure and muscular limbs of the Arab youth. “It is
impossible! Why, Antar himself at sixteen years had not a body and limbs
like that. Young man,” he continued, bending his shaggy grey brows till
they met, “you are deceiving me.”
“I never deceived any one,” said the youth haughtily; but his
countenance instantly resumed its habitual frank expression, and he
added, “If I wished to learn to deceive, it is not likely that I should
begin with the most sagacious and experienced of all the white-beards in
Alexandria.”
“True,” said the old man, smiling; “I did you wrong. But, Mashallah, you
have made haste in your growth. If your brain has advanced as rapidly as
your stature, you might pass for twenty summers. What can you do?”
“Little,” replied Hassan. “Almost nothing.”
“Nay, tell me that little,” said the merchant good-humouredly; “with a
willing heart ’twill soon be more.”
“I can ride on camel or on horse, I can run, I can swim and dive, I can
shoot and——” here he paused, and the merchant added—
“And I doubt not, from what my friend the Sheik writes, your hand is no
stranger to the sword or lance; but, my son, all these acquirements,
though useful in the desert, will not avail you much here—nevertheless,
we will see. Inshallah, your lot shall be fortunate; you have a forehead
of good omen. God is great—He makes the prince and the beggar—we are all
dust.”
To this long speech of the worthy merchant Hassan only replied by
repeating after him, “God is great.”
Hadji Ismael then turned to his chief clerk, and told him that, as the
youth was a stranger in the town and intrusted to him by an old friend,
he was to be lodged in the house, and arrangement to be made for his
board.
It would seem that Hassan’s forehead of good omen had already exercised
its influence over the chief clerk, for he offered without hesitation to
take the youth under his own special charge, and to let him share his
meals; an arrangement which was very agreeable to Hassan, who had begun
to fear that he would be like a fish out of water—he, a stranger in that
confused mass of bricks and bales, ships and levantines.
On a signal from the merchant, Mohammed Aga retired with his young
companion, and while showing him the storerooms and courts of the house,
drew him to speak of his life in the desert, and listened to his
untutored yet graphic description with deepening interest.
Although born in Alexandria, the old clerk was of Turkish parentage, and
had followed his professional duties with such assiduity and steadiness
that he had never visited the interior of Egypt. He had frequent
transactions with Arabs from the neighbourhood on the part of his
master, but he usually found that, however wild and uncivilised they
might appear, they were sharp and clever enough in obtaining a high
price for the articles which they brought on sale; but a wild young
Bedouin, full of natural poetry and enthusiasm, was an animal so totally
new to the worthy clerk, that his curiosity, and ere long his interest,
was awakened to a degree at which he was himself surprised. Hassan,
notwithstanding his extreme youth, was gifted with the intuitive
sagacity of a race accustomed to read, not books, but men; his eye,
bright and keen as that of a hawk, was quick at detecting anything
approaching to roguery or falsehood in a countenance on which he fixed
it, and that of Mohammed Aga inspired him with a sympathetic confidence
which was not misplaced.
On the following morning the merchant had no sooner concluded his
prayers and ablutions than he sent for Mohammed Aga, and asked his
opinion of the newly arrived addition to their household.
“By Allah!” replied the clerk, “he seems a brave and honest youth, and
were you Sheik of the Wâled-Ali[13] instead of Hadji Ismael the
merchant, I doubt not he would have been a gain to your tent; but to
what use you can put him in Alexandria I know not.”
“You say truly,” replied his master; “he is not a youth to sit on a mat
in the corner of a counting-house, or to go with messages from house to
house, where knowledge of the Frank languages is required. But Allah has
provided a livelihood for all His creatures: destiny sent the youth
hither, and his fate is written.”
“Praise be to God!” said the clerk; “my master’s words are words of
wisdom and truth. A visit to the holy cities (blessed be their names!)
has opened the eyes of his understanding: doubtless he will discover the
road which fate has marked out for this youth to travel; for it is
written by the hand of the Causer of Causes.”[14]
“True,” replied the merchant, “there is no power or might but in Him;
nevertheless, a wise writer has said, ‘When the shades of doubt are on
thy mind, seek counsel of thy bed: morning will bring thee light.’ I did
so the past night, and see, I have found that Allah has sent me this
Arab youth in a happy hour. Inshallah! his fortune and mine will be
good. Do you not remember that I have an order to collect twenty of the
finest Arab horses, to be sent as a present from Mohammed Ali to the
Sultan? Neither you nor I have much skill in this matter, and those whom
I consult in the town give me opinions according to the amount of the
bribe they may have received from the dealer. We will make trial of
Hassan, and, Inshallah! our faces will be white in the presence of our
Prince.”[15]
“Inshallah!” said the clerk joyfully, “my master’s patience will not be
put to a long trial, for there are in the town three horses just arrived
from Bahirah, which have been sent on purpose that you might purchase
them on this commission. Does it please you that after the morning meal
we should go to the Meidàn and see them?”
“Be it so,” said the Hadji. And Mohammed Aga, retiring to his own
quarters, informed Hassan of the service on which it was proposed to
employ him. The eyes of the youth brightened when he learnt that his
vague apprehensions of a life of listless confinement were groundless,
and that he was about to be employed on a duty for the discharge of
which he was fitted by his early training and habits.
Mohammed observed the change in his countenance, and thought it prudent
to warn him against the wiles and tricks to which he would be exposed
among the Alexandrian dealers, kindly advising him to be cautious in
giving an opinion, as his future prospects might depend much upon his
first success. Hassan smiled, and thanked his new friend; he then added—
“Mohammed, I have eaten the Hadji’s bread, and he is a friend of my
father’s” (the latter word he pronounced with a faltering voice). “I
will serve him in this matter faithfully. Until asked I shall say
nothing, and when asked I shall say nothing beyond what I know to be
true.”
The morning meal despatched, Hadji Ismael proceeded to the Meidàn (then
an open space, and now the great square of Alexandria) accompanied by
Mohammed Aga, the _sàis_ or groom, and Hassan. They found the
horse-dealing party awaiting their arrival. It consisted of a _dellâl_
or dealer, and two or three of his servants, and an Arab from the
neighbourhood of Damanhouri. They had two grey horses to dispose of, and
at a distance of some fifty yards were two _sàises_ holding by a strong
halter a bay horse, which was pawing the ground, neighing, and
apparently well disposed to wage war with any biped or quadruped that
might come within reach of its heels.
“Peace be upon you,” said the _dellâl_, addressing the merchant.
“Inshallah! I have brought you here two grey horses that are worthy to
bear the Sultan of the two worlds—pure Arab blood—this dark grey is of
the Kohèil race, and the light grey a true Saklàwi.”[16]
“Are they young?” inquired the merchant.
“One is four and the other five,” was the ready reply.
The merchant then desired his _sàis_ to inspect them and examine their
mouths. They were both gentle and fine-looking animals, with splendid
manes and tails, and their appearance prepossessed the merchant in their
favour. They stood close by the assembled group, and allowed their teeth
to be examined with the most patient docility.
“The marks are as the _dellâl_ has said,” reported the _sàis_, after
having finished his inspection.
The animals were then mounted by one of the _dellâl’s_ men, who walked
and galloped them past the merchant, who seemed as well pleased with
their paces as with their appearance.
“What is their price?” he inquired.
“Their price,” replied the _dellâl_, “should be very high, for they are
pearls not to be found in every market; but to you, excellent Hadji,
whom I wish to oblige, and whom I always serve with fidelity, they can
be sold for sixty purses the pair” (about £300).
During all this time Hassan had never spoken a word, neither had a
single mark or movement of the horses escaped him; the merchant now
turned towards him, saying—
“My son, tell me your opinion of these horses; are they not very fine?”
“They are not very bad,” replied the youth drily; “but they have many
faults, and are much too dear.”
“And pray what are their faults, master busybody?” said the horse-dealer
in a rage.
“I am not a busybody,” answered Hassan, looking him steadfastly in the
face; “I merely replied to a question put to me by our master the Hadji.
As for their faults, if you do not know them better than I, you are not
fit to be a _dellâl_; and if you do know them, you must be a rogue to
bring them here and endeavour to pass them on the Hadji at such a
price!”
Words cannot paint the fury of the _dellâl_ at being thus addressed by a
stripling whom he supposed to be as ignorant of his craft as the other
attendants on Hadji Ismael; the heavy courbatch[17] vibrated in his
hand, and he was about to utter some violent or abusive retort, when the
merchant, interposing between them, said to the _dellâl_—
“Do not give way to anger, and remember if the words of the youth are
not true they can do no harm either to you or to the sale of your
horses.”
The worthy merchant forgot at the moment that it was probably the truth
of the words which gave them their sting; but fate seemed resolved that
the horse-dealing transaction should not proceed amicably, for scarcely
had the merchant concluded his pacific address to the _dellâl_ when he
heard behind him a sharp cry of pain, mingled with a sound resembling a
blow, accompanied by the rattling of metal.
It seems that the Damanhouri Arab entertained a shrewd suspicion that
Hassan was not a greenhorn in the matter of horse-flesh, and while the
merchant was making his pacific speech to the _dellâl_, he had crept to
the side of the youth and whispered to him—
“Brother, say nothing about the faults of the horses; say that they are
very good: here is your bakshish” (present), and so saying he slipped
five Spanish dollars into Hassan’s hand.
The reply of the latter was to throw them with some force in the face of
the speaker. Maddened by the pain and the insult, the Damanhouri drew a
knife from his girdle and sprang upon the youth; but Hassan, whose
activity was equal to his strength, caught the uplifted hand, wrenched
the knife from its grasp, and placing one of his legs behind his
assailant’s knee, threw him heavily to the ground. His blood was up, and
the anger that shot from his eye and dilated his nostril produced such a
change in his countenance that he was scarcely to be recognized; but the
change lasted only a moment. Placing the knife in the hands of the
astonished merchant, he briefly related to him the provocation which he
had received, and the dollars still lying on the ground confirmed the
tale. Attracted by the broil, several idlers and soldiers who were
accidentally passing had now joined the party, and one whispered to
another—
“Mashallah, the youth must have a greedy stomach. A bakshish of five
dollars is dirt to him,” for it never entered into the head of any of
these worthy Alexandrians to suppose that Hassan’s indignation could
arise from any other cause than dissatisfaction at the amount of the
bribe offered to him.
Peace was at length restored, the Damanhouri having picked up his
dollars and slunk away, muttering curses and threats against Hassan. The
merchant then asked him to state distinctly the faults that he found in
the two grey horses.
“The dark one,” replied Hassan, “is not of pure race; he is a
half-breed, and is not worth more than ten purses. The light one is
better bred, but he is old, and therefore not worth much more.”
“Old!” ejaculated the _dellâl_, his anger again rising; “by your head,
Hadji, your own _sàis_, who examined his teeth, said that he was only
five.”
The eyes of the merchant and the dealer were now turned upon Hassan,
whose only reply was a smile, and passing the forefinger of his right
hand over that of his left, imitating the action of one using a file.
This was a hint beyond the comprehension of the merchant, who asked him
to explain his meaning.
“I mean,” he said, “that his teeth have been filed, and the marks in
them artificially made;[18] but his eyes, and head, and legs tell his
age to any one that knows a horse from a camel.”
The _dellâl_ was obliged to contain his rage, for not only was he
restrained by the presence of the merchant and the bystanders, but the
rough treatment lately inflicted on the Damanhouri did not encourage him
to have recourse to personal violence. He contented himself, therefore,
with saying in a sneering tone—
“If the wise and enlightened merchant, Hadji Ismael, is to be led by the
advice of a boy whose chin never felt a beard, Mashallah! it were time
that the fishes swam about in the heaven.”
“Allah be praised!” replied the merchant gravely, “truth is truth, even
if it be spoken by a child. Friend _dellâl_, I will not dispute with you
on this matter, but I will make a bargain with you, to which you will
agree if you know that you have spoken truth. I will write to old
Abou-Obeyed, whose tent is now among the Wâled-Ali. All men know that he
is most skilled in Arab horses, and he is himself bred in the Nejd. He
shall come here, and his bakshish shall be five purses. If he decides
that all which you have stated of the race and age of these two horses
is true, I will give you the full price that you have asked, and will
pay him the bakshish. If his words agree with those spoken by this
youth, I do not take the horses, and you pay the Sheik’s bakshish.”
As the _dellâl_ knew that the old Sheik Abou-Obeyed valued his
reputation too highly to allow himself to be bribed to a deception so
liable to detection, he replied—
“It is not worth the trouble. Allah be praised, there are horses enough
in Egypt and the desert; but if our master purchases none without the
consent of that strange youth, methinks it will not be this year that he
will send twenty to Stamboul. Doubtless he will now tell you that yonder
bay is a vicious, useless brute, not worth the halter that holds him.”
“If he is not a vicious brute,” said Hassan, looking the _dellâl_ full
in the face and smiling, “mount him, and let our master see his paces.”
The _dellâl_ bit his lip at finding himself thwarted at every turn by
the natural shrewdness of a mere stripling, for nothing was farther from
his intention than to mount an animal whose uncontrollable violence and
temper were the sole cause of its being sent for sale by its present
owner. It had not been backed for months, and the two _sàises_ who held
it by the head were scarcely able to resist the furious bounds which it
made in its endeavour to free itself from thraldom. While the _dellâl_
went towards them to assist them in leading it up for the inspection of
the merchant, the latter turned to Hassan, saying—
“My son, assuredly that is a vicious and dangerous beast. It can be no
use my thinking of purchasing that for the great lords at Stamboul.”
“Let us see it nearer,” replied the youth, “perhaps we may learn whether
it be play or vice. Mashallah!” he muttered to himself as it drew
nearer, snorting, and bounding, and lashing out its heels, “that is a
horse—what a pity that it is cooped up in this town! Would that I had it
on the desert, with my greyhound beside, and the antelope before me!”
His eyes glistened as he spoke, and the merchant, tapping him on the
shoulder, said—
“My son, you seem to like that horse better than the others. Is it not a
vicious, dangerous brute?”
“It is violent now,” replied Hassan, “probably because it has been in
hands that knew not how to use it; but I do not see any signs of vice on
its head. It is evidently quite young—three or four at most—and it has
blood: more I cannot pretend to say.”
The noble colt had now cleared a respectable circle with his heels, as
none of the bystanders chose to risk a near inspection, when the
merchant, turning to the _dellâl_, said—
“That seems a violent, intractable animal; what is its lowest price?”
“When it is taught and a year older,” replied the dealer, “it will be
worth fifty purses. As it is, I can sell it to you for thirty.”
“Tell him,” whispered Hassan to the merchant, “to desire one of the
_sàises_ to ride it past you, that you may see its action.”
The Hadji did so, but the endeavour of the dealer and his _sàises_ to
comply with the request proved utterly fruitless. No sooner did one of
them approach with the object of mounting than he reared, backed, struck
out with his forelegs, and played such a variety of rough antics that
they could not come near him. Perhaps none of them were over-anxious to
mount an animal in such a state of violent excitement, without a saddle,
and with no bridle but the halter passed round the head, and with one
turn round the lower jaw. The merchant stroked his beard, and looked at
the colt in dismay. Hassan drew near and whispered to him—
“Tell the _dellâl_ that it is a violent, unruly brute, and offer him
twenty purses.”
The Hadji had by this time acquired so much confidence in the opinion of
his young _protégé_ that he did so without hesitation. Then ensued a
long bargaining conference between the merchant and the _dellâl_, which
ended in the latter saying that he would take twenty-five purses and no
less. The merchant looked at his young adviser, who said—
“Close with him at that price.”