HASSAN.”

Delì Pasha had read this note aloud. When he had finished it, Amina

sprang up, and saying, “Allah be praised!” burst into tears of joy.

“Whence this strong emotion?” said he, surprised at her feeling so much

interest in the subject.

“Because,” she replied, while blushes mantled over her face and

neck—“because I knew how much you valued that sword.”

Oh, you little hypocrite, Amina!

Delì Pasha recovered slowly, and for several days never left his harem:

something seemed to weigh upon his mind, and all Amina’s caresses and

endearments were unable to restore his usual spirits. She could not

understand the cause of this melancholy, for his lost sword had been

recovered, the young Mameluke Kasem had been liberated by his order, and

Mohammed Ali had shown his regard for him and his appreciation of the

Arab mare Nebleh by sending an officer specially to inquire after his

health, and to present him with a diamond ring on the part of his

Highness, accompanied by a handsome sword for Ahmed Aga and a cashmere

shawl for Hassan.

By dint of coaxing she at length elicited from him that his proud spirit

was chafing at the humiliation to which he had been exposed by the

outbreak of his ungovernable temper before all his household, and that

exposure he most unjustly laid to the account of Hassan.

“My father,” she said as she sat at his feet, while his hand

unconsciously played with the dark, redundant tresses that fell over her

shoulders, “now that anger and illness have passed away, and that your

good health and judgment are returning, do you not see that what Hassan

did was done in fidelity and true service to you? Had he not spoken and

stayed you in a moment when wrath had clouded your reason, the poor

Mameluke would have been beaten nearly to death for a fault of which he

was innocent. What would then have been said of my father’s justice and

humanity? Now that all has terminated so happily, ought you not rather

to thank Hassan than to blame him?”

“I will thank him,” said her father, “for you speak truly; he deserves

it. But methinks you plead his cause with great earnestness, Amina.” As

he said these last words he looked fixedly at his daughter, who cast

down her eyes, deeply blushing.

“My father,” she replied timidly and with suppressed emotion, “you know

our proverb, ‘El-rghàib ma lehu nàib’ [The absent has no advocate], and

I have often heard from you that it is right to defend those who are

absent and who are unjustly blamed. You have yourself spoken to me of

the zeal, the courage, and good qualities of this Hassan, and I

therefore felt sure that it was from his devotion to you, and not from

insolence, that he spoke to you at a moment when your mind was not your

own, and thus prevented you from doing that which would have cost you

after-pain, in the experience of our saying, ‘Precipitation is from

Satan, but patience is the key of contentment.’ You are not angry with

me, are you, father?”

“Who could be angry with you, light of my eyes and treasure of my

heart?” exclaimed the old Pasha, kissing her forehead. “No, my child;

yet you know not what sufferings my mind has undergone. When one of

those fits of fury is upon me, if any one opposes or remonstrates with

me, I become mad. Hassan’s speech, though true, drove me to the extreme

of madness and to the verge of murder.” Here his voice became husky with

emotion. “Yes, Amina, I rushed at him with a drawn dagger; he never

stirred, but opened his breast to me. I was in the act of striking when

I met his large dark eye fixed upon me, not in fear, not in anger, but

in love—yes, Amina, it was a look he might have fixed upon his mother,

if he had one, poor youth! It conquered me! for the last thing that I

remember was, that I passed the weapon purposely beyond his shoulder;

but how he must hate—how he must despise me now!”

Amina’s tears gushed from between the fair fingers that vainly strove to

hide them. That her father should have been on the verge of murdering

the idol of her heart,—that he, in the pride of youth and strength,

should have bared his breast to the dagger rather than raise an arm

against her father,—these thoughts produced contending emotions of

horror and tenderness sufficient to overpower her self-control, and she

wept without interruption, for Delì Pasha himself was much overcome by

the feelings which he had just expressed.

At length she looked up, smiling through her tears, and said, “Father,

if he is brave and generous as you say, he will not hate you. Tell him

frankly the truth—that in a moment when your mind was overclouded by

anger you did him injustice—and he will love you, and you will love him,

better than before.”

“Inshallah! dear little prophetess, it shall be as you say, and,

Inshallah! this shall have been the last time that men shall say of Delì

Pasha that his passion blinded his eyes and overcame his reason.”

Here we may add that the future confirmed the strength of his

resolution. The mental shock which had followed this last outbreak was

never forgotten. When, a few days later, he left the harem, his first

act was to send for Hassan and to make the frank _amende_ suggested by

Amina. He read in the young man’s glowing eyes, as he kissed his lord’s

hand with an eagerness and devotion such as he had never before

exhibited, the truth of her prophecy that he should find himself not

hated or despised, but better loved than ever.

Little Kasem was reinstated in favour, and it need not be said that his

gratitude to Hassan was unbounded: neither will it excite surprise that

the influence of the latter in the household had been much increased by

the scene which they had so lately witnessed; for never before had they

seen any one successfully venture to brave the wrath of their

proverbially irascible chief.

Hassan spent the few days which yet remained before the migration of the

whole family to Siout in making the few arrangements which he had for

some time proposed. He sent off the eight horses taken from the

Sammalous, with a respectfully affectionate letter, to his

foster-father, accompanied by fitting presents to his foster-mother and

sister; he wrote also a grateful letter to his former patron, the Hadji

Ismael, in Alexandria, and another to his old friend the chief clerk. He

went then with Ahmed Aga to the village in Karioonbiah, armed with the

Pasha’s authority to appoint another _nazir_ and Sheik-el-Beled in the

place of the two scoundrels who had been detected and dismissed. When

they had made the best selection in their power, and arranged the

village accounts, they turned their horses’ heads again towards Cairo,

Ahmed Aga saying as they mounted—

“I suppose now we have made two more rogues, for the saying in the

country is, ‘If you want to find a match for the priest and the _câdi_,

you must go to the _nazir_ and the Sheik-el-Beled.’”

“I am glad that they omitted the _khaznadâr_ in the proverb,” said

Hassan, laughing.

“The _khaznadâr_ and the _mirakhor_,” replied his friend, “are bad

enough in general, but, as the Arabs say, they are ‘tied by a shorter

rope,’ and cannot eat so much of their neighbours’ corn.”

It was during the long ride from the village back to the city that

Hassan related, in confidence to his friend, some of the details of his

early life—the name that he had borne in his youth, and the mystery in

which his birth was still involved.

“It is very strange,” said Ahmed, who had mused in silence after Hassan

had finished his narrative. “I have lived in Cairo now many years, and

have known or heard the history of many families, high and low, yet I

cannot recall any occurrence similar to what you relate; neither can I

understand how it has come to pass that neither of your parents has ever

made inquiries after you among the Arabs in the neighbourhood.”

“That is easily explained,” said Hassan. “My father, who was probably a

soldier, may have been killed in battle, and my mother may never have

seen him since he carried me off an infant, probably to save my life: if

so, she may never have heard of my having been given into the charge of

a Bedouin woman.”

Hassan spoke these words in a tone so sad that to cheer him his friend

replied, “Inshallah! this knot will one day be untied by the Revealer of

Secrets,[93] whatever be the secret. I will swear by my life that your

father was a brave man and your mother a good woman; for you know the

proverb, ‘Grapes are not borne by the thistle-bush.’ Meanwhile, you must

comfort yourself by remembering the saying of the Persian sheik and poet

[Sâdi], ‘On the Day of Judgment Allah will not ask you who was your

father, but who are you, and what deeds have you done.’”

Conversing on this and other topics, the friends concluded their

journey, and were just re-entering Boulak about sunset, when, in passing

a narrow by-street at right angles to that in which they were riding,

Hassan saw at a little distance a figure in which, by the dress and

gait, he at once recognised the old woman who had inveigled him into the

house of the Khanum. Springing off his horse and giving it over to the

_sàis_, he requested Ahmed Aga to continue his way homeward with the

servants, promising to rejoin him shortly. Following the old woman until

she reached a part of the street where not a passenger was to be seen,

he quickened his step, and overtaking her, seized her by the arm and

said to her in a stern voice—

“Mother of evil, tell me at once who urged you to take me to that

house?”

The crone, trusting to the concealment of her thick veil, endeavoured at

first to persuade him that he was mistaken in the person whom he

addressed, but her voice only made him more sure than he had been

before: then she tried sundry kinds of subterfuges and falsehoods, until

his patience being exhausted, he exclaimed—

“Wallah! unless you tell me the truth, and that instantly, I will drag

you straight to the Kiahia Pasha, and tell your story to him: you well

know that in a few hours you will find yourself at the bottom of the

Nile.”

Under the terror of this threat she confessed that it was by Ferraj, the

servant of Osman Bey, that she had been induced to address him and to

introduce him to the house in question.

“Osman Bey!” said Hassan bitterly. “Well, I am his debtor; meanwhile do

you, if you value your life, hold your peace and begone. I owe you no

illwill. Wretched instrument of malice,” he muttered to himself as he

strode homeward, “thou art beneath my notice. What says our proverb,

‘The anger of the arrow-stricken man is kindled not against the bow but

against the archer.’ Osman Bey, we shall meet again, and, Inshallah!

with some weapon in our hands better than a jereed.”

Little did Hassan know, when he breathed this wish, how soon it would be

realised, and what an influence that meeting would have on his

after-destinies. When we see in life how often the blessings that we

pray for become, when granted, sources of misfortune, and the events

which we dread and deprecate result in our happiness, it seems an act of

folly, if not of impiety, to pray for earthly goods in any other form

than that of “Not my will, but thine be done.”

* * * * *

Most of our _dramatis personæ_ are now to be separated for a season. The

Thorpe family having finished their examination of the Pyramids, had

re-embarked on the Nile for Upper Egypt, and Delì Pasha’s preparations

for the journey to Siout were just completed. He himself, with his

official secretary, pipe-bearers, and the greater part of his household,

were embarked on board of a large dahabiah; a second of similar

dimensions, the cabin-windows of which were provided with damask

curtains within and venetian blinds without, was allotted to his harem,

with their eunuch attendants, and was ordered to remain always

immediately in the wake of the first; while Hassan and Ahmed, with a

score of armed followers, were to perform the journey along the banks of

the river on horseback, and to bivouac as a guard every night at

whatever place the boats might be made fast at sunset.[94]

All was ready for departure, and the harem was already embarked, when an

officer from the Viceroy came to Delì Pasha and told him that his

Highness wished him to remain a few days to attend a council on some

matters of importance. “He knows,” added the officer, “that you are on

the point of departure, and part of your family already embarked,

wherefore he desires that you will not take the trouble to detain them,

but let them go leisurely on their journey, retaining two or three

servants to attend upon you. When the council is over, his Highness will

give you a swift _canjah_ of his own, which will bring you to Siout as

soon as your large heavy dahabiahs.”

“On my head be it,” replied Delì Pasha. And having retained only a few

Mamelukes for the service of his wardrobe and chibouq, he desired his

own boats to go forward as originally designed, placing the

_kateb-es-serr_, or chief secretary (a quiet, respectable, and elderly

Turk), in charge of the leading dahabiah, and in command of those whom

she contained. To Ahmed Aga and Hassan he said, “I know that I can trust

my boats and harem to your vigilance at night; there are many thieves in

Upper Egypt, so you must not indulge in more than a hare’s sleep.”[95]

Under these instructions the dahabiahs started on their voyage

northward, and pursued it without accident or interruption until they

reached a point of the river not more than twenty miles below Siout.

Night was coming on, a strong gale of wind from the eastward had set in,

which, in spite of all the exertions of the pilots and sailors, drove

the dahabiahs against the west bank of the Nile, where the current was

running with terrific violence, and the waves dashed over the low sides

of the boats.

Fearful of being carried down by the stream, the _ràises_ ordered the

men to jump out ashore and make fast the boats with the anchors, and

also by ropes passed round sharp staves driven into the ground. With the

leading boat the manœuvre succeeded, and she was brought to in a bight

of the bank, where she was in comparatively smooth and sheltered water;

but the boat containing the harem broke from her moorings, and in spite

of all the exertions of her crew hauling on her from the shore, she was

carried some way along the rough and jagged bank, thereby scraping off

her cabin paint and terrifying the timid inmates.

Suddenly she came against some broken timbers of an old disused _sakìah_

or water-wheel, which smashed in all the cabin windows on the land side,

shivering in pieces the Venetian blinds and tearing the damask curtains

in shreds. Immediately all was panic on board the boat, and the

affrighted eunuchs and women, thinking that the cabin would be flooded,

rushed on to the upper deck, which was entirely deserted by the crew,

who were busily employed forward in endeavouring to bring the boat to.

All were pulling, and hauling, and shouting, and ordering; but no one

was listening or obeying. The consequence was that their exertions,

without direction or unity, were fruitless, and the boat continued to

drift down, still grating her sides against the high and jagged bank.

Among the affrighted women assembled on what we may call the poop, Amina

and her faithful Fatimeh had withdrawn quite to the stern of the boat,

the place usually occupied by the steersman, where the former sat

herself down on a hen-coop and looked out in terror on the dark and

turbid waters, when suddenly the tiller, which had been left unsecured,

swept across the deck with such force that it threw Amina and her

hen-coop overboard, at the same time knocking down and stunning Fatimeh

Khanum, who fell against the low railing that surrounds the poop.

At the time Hassan and Ahmed Aga were some hundred yards astern of the

boats, followed by their own men and by a dozen fellahs whom they had

brought from the nearest village as night-watchers. Hearing the shouts

and cries ahead, they conjectured that some accident had happened,

though they could not see any distant object, as the dusk of evening was

darkened by a gloomy sky and the dust borne on the wings of the angry

blast. Suddenly a faint cry from the water reached the ear of Hassan,

and turning his eyes in the direction whence it came, he thought he

descried something like drapery hurried along by the current about fifty

yards from the shore.

Quick as thought he sprang from his horse, cast his cloak on the ground,

threw his pistols on it, and crying to Ahmed, “Wallah! there is a woman

or child drowning,” plunged head-foremost into the dark and boiling

waters.

Ahmed Aga, who had seen no object in the water and heard no cry, thought

that his young friend must be mad. Nevertheless, he could not help

admiring the daring gallantry which prompted him to brave the roaring

rushing waters on such a night with the hope of rescuing a

fellow-creature, but he had no time left for musing, for the cries and

shouts continued to rise from the dahabiah, and his duty bade him hasten

thither without delay.

Ordering one of his men to secure Hassan’s horse, cloak, and pistols, he

went forward, and by the aid of his own presence of mind, and the force

that he brought with him, succeeded at last in securing the dahabiah to

the bank. It was not until order was somewhat restored, and the eunuchs

went up on the poop to reconduct the ladies and women slaves to the

cabin, that they found Fatimeh Khanum lying half-stunned, and her head

still confused by the blow from the tiller. Amina was nowhere to be

found. The cries and confusion thence ensuing can be more easily

imagined than described.

To return to Hassan. No sooner did he rise to the surface from his

plunge than he swam down the stream with all his might, looking on both

sides, and calling aloud as he went. For some time his humane endeavours

met with no success, but at length, in answer to his call, a faint cry

caught his ear. Striking out in that direction, he came up with a

hen-coop made of palm-sticks, and over it he could distinguish female

drapery.

“Take courage! take courage! I am here to help,” he shouted aloud; and

as he neared the hen-coop he heard his own name faintly uttered.

Who can paint the tumultuous rush of feelings as he recognised the voice

of his idolised Amina—feelings compared to the moral force and

impetuosity of which the rushing and turbid waters of the Nile were calm

as a mill-pond. Terror, pity, joy, love,—all were poured into the

thrilling tone in which he called aloud her name. “Fear not, my

beloved,” he continued; “you are now safe. Your arm over the hen-coop;

your chin resting on your arm, my love. Hold fast to it, and do not

speak; keep your sweet mouth shut, or these rough and angry waters might

choke you. Thus, my love; my arm is close to you, so you have nothing to

fear; I will guide the hen-coop towards the bank.”

The tender and cheering tone in which he spoke as he swam beside her

giving her these instructions, placing her hand himself on the centre

and most buoyant part of the hen-coop, inspired the courageous girl with

hope and confidence. Hitherto she had clung to her frail cage-support

with the grasp of despair, and more than once the cold, and the water

that had forced its way into her lips, eyes, and nostrils, had almost

compelled her to let go her hold. But now she felt herself possessed of

new life, and such was her confidence in Hassan’s skill, courage, and

devotion, she felt that with him beside her, whether in mid-ocean or

mid-desert, she could know no fear. At the worst, to die in his arms

would be bliss far beyond life without him. She now proved her own high

courage by obeying implicitly his directions without uttering a word.

Hassan had noted in his evening ride that for some miles below the bank

which he had left was high and precipitous; he well knew, therefore,

that the opposite bank would be shelving, and the current less

strong.[96] This consideration compelled him to push the hen-coop before

him to the opposite bank, the first object being to get Amina out of the

water as soon as possible. This he accordingly did, though, much to her

surprise, he kept talking loudly all the time, splashing and making as

much noise as he could with hands and feet.[97]

He thus succeeded in bringing his fair charge safely ashore, and

opposite the point where he landed he descried a faintly-glimmering

light, like that of a nearly extinguished fire. His first care was to

wring the water from her drenched clothes, then casting off his own

jacket and wringing it, he threw it over her shoulders to shelter her

from the cold and biting wind.

Seeing that she was too much exhausted to walk, he lifted her gently in

his arms and carried her towards the dim light. On reaching it he found

that it proceeded from the dying embers of a fire which had been made in

front of a small hut such as are often constructed in Egypt by shepherds

or fishermen for temporary shelter. It was unoccupied, though he

surmised that the tenant could not be far distant, as he perceived in

one corner of it a striped blanket (such as is used by the fellahs in

winter), and on it the owner’s _nabout_ or cudgel.

“El-hamdu-lillah! Praise be to Allah!” said he, as he possessed himself

of these invaluable treasures; and in another moment he had wrapped

Amina from head to foot in the blanket, and laid her gently in the

corner of the hut.

Then he ventured to ask her how she felt.

“Faint and very cold, dear Hassan,” was the gently murmured reply; for,

notwithstanding her delicate nurture, the brave girl’s spirit had

sustained her so long as the danger endured, but now the reaction had

come, and with it exhaustion, which seemed to deprive her of all bodily

and mental energy.

“Patience,” whispered Hassan; “this blanket will soon make you warm.

Meantime I will see if there be wood or dry weeds to restore this dead

fire.” With the staff in hand he went round and round the hut, but his

search was fruitless. He lay down, and, putting his ear to the ground,

thought he could distinguish some sound: he crept quietly up to the top

of a bank at a distance from the water, and could descry, about a mile

inland, a large fire and some tents.

“Dry clothes and some warm drink she must have,” he said to himself,

“and there is no time to lose. I know not what men these may be, but the

risk must be incurred.” He felt his girdle, and to his great joy found

that his dagger was safe in its place: he then returned to the hut and

asked Amina if she felt herself sufficiently recovered to go to some

tents and a fire not far off.

“Let me die here,” she murmured; “you have saved me from those cold and

rushing waters. Let me go to sleep here, Hassan, while you sing to me.

Sleep, sleep.”

Hassan saw that her mind was overpowered by exhaustion, but he so much

feared the effect of the wet clothing on her delicately nurtured frame

that he decided to reach the fire with as little delay as possible.

“Light of my eyes!” he said, sitting down beside her, “Hassan lives only

to serve you, and were it safe I would sing you to sleep and watch at

your door while you rest, but danger and pain would follow, unless you

can reach the warmth of the fire.”

“Where is the fire?” said Amina, trying to shake off the lethargy that

threatened to overpower all her faculties.

“It is not far,” he replied; “if you will come, I will soon carry you

there, and you can sleep as you go.”

“I will do whatever you say,” murmured the exhausted girl, whose ideas

were still so confused that she knew not what she said. “Let us go to

Boulak, and there you shall sing to me, and I will not tell anybody

except Fatimeh how I love you; but do not let us go into that cold water

again.”

Sweet to Hassan’s ear were some of these words, though spoken in

half-unconsciousness; but his first thought now being to convey Amina to

the fire, he grasped the staff in his hand, and carefully wrapping the

blanket around her so that nothing but her face was exposed to the

night-air, he lifted her gently in his arms.

The motion, together with the warmth of the blanket, restored her

scattered senses, and also the circulation of her young blood, which had

been chilled by long immersion in the water. Who shall tell what were

her sensations as she found herself thus tenderly borne along by her

devoted lover, or what were those of Hassan when, from the position of

her head, he felt her warm breath upon his glowing cheek? When Hassan

arrived within three or four hundred yards of the fire he could perceive

that it was in the midst of an Arab encampment, containing at least a

dozen tents.

As he had passed over the tract near the river, which was overgrown with

_khalfah_ (brushwood and rushes), and had reached an open tract of

smooth ground, he knew that his approach would ere long be descried, and

judged that, to prevent being mistaken for a lurking enemy, his wisest

course would be to make it known by calling aloud. Having gently lowered

Amina’s feet to the ground, and in reply to his inquiry having

ascertained that she was sufficiently recovered to walk, he readjusted

the blanket so as to cover her head and leave her the use of her feet.

“Honoured and beloved, light of my eyes,” he whispered, “Allah knows

whether we shall find friends or enemies in these Arabs: at all events,

their watch-dogs are likely to be troublesome. I will try to move these

men by words of friendship, but if they prove thieves and treacherous,

we must trust to Allah. Do you remain close behind me, and leave me the

free use of my arms.” (As he said this he grasped the cudgel in his

right and the dagger in his left hand.) “Before they shall offer you

insult or injury, they must tear me limb from limb,” he added. “It will

perhaps be safer and better if among these people you pass for

my—sister.”

A blush came over her face, for she knew that another and dearer name

had rushed to his lips and been checked in utterance.

“Hassan,” she said, looking up into his eyes with the full confidence of

a first and guileless affection, “to you I owe my life and all that

makes life dear; how then can I refuse to do your bidding? for I swear

by the memory of my sainted mother, on whose ashes be peace, that never

did sister love a brother as——” Here she hesitated, fearful that she had

said too much. How she would have finished the sentence we know not, for

Hassan, stooping fondly over the sweet upturned face, now lighted by a

moonbeam that struggled through the angry, flitting clouds, caught on

his trembling lips the murmured confession that was denied to his ear.

It was the first kiss of mutual love, and wet and cold and danger were

awhile forgotten. Gently withdrawing herself from his fond embrace, she

added, “Hassan, in dealing with the people of these tents, be they bad

or good, curb your daring courage, and be cautious of your life for my

sake.”

“Blessed treasure of my heart, I will do as you desire: I will be

patient and gentle as a lamb with them unless they offer you insult, and

then—— But no; if they are Arabs[98] they will respect the law of

hospitality.”

So saying, he advanced from the shade of the copse directly towards the

tents. Scarcely had they proceeded one hundred yards when, as he had

expected, the watch-dogs began to bark, and two or three dusky figures

were seen to move about near the fire: continuing his progress steadily

until he came within hail, he shouted aloud at the full pitch of his

powerful voice, “Brother Arabs, strangers in distress demand

hospitality.”

The encampment was now all astir; dogs rushed out, followed by their

masters armed with spears. Hassan again repeated the same shout, and the

men were seen driving back the dogs and advancing to meet him. To the

first who came up he said—

“Brothers, we have seen trouble; my sister has fallen into the Nile and

is half-perished with cold; if you have a sheik or chief, bring me

before him.”

With the brief reply of “You are welcome,” they conducted him and his

timid companion to the largest tent of the encampment, before which the

well-fed fire was blazing: the owner came forth to meet his guest, when

at the same instant the words “Abou-Hamedi” and “Hassan” broke from

their respective lips. It was the Damanhour Arab, formerly rescued by

Hassan, on whose encampment he had thus unexpectedly fallen, and, to the

astonishment of Amina the Arab’s wife and sister rushed out of their

tent and crowded round her lover, kissing his hand and calling him

brother and preserver.

A few words sufficed to explain the condition of Hassan and Amina, and

in a few minutes the latter was in the recesses of the harem-tent,

covered with dry clothes, rubbed until she was in a glow of warmth, and

drinking a bowl of hot fresh milk sweetened with honey. Hassan fared no

less hospitably with his host, and they related to each other their

adventures over a pipe and coffee.

Whilst Hassan warmed himself by the fire he exchanged a recital of

adventures with Abou-Hamedi. Those of the latter were not of a character

to raise him in the estimation of the citizens of a civilised state,

although they were far from being degrading in the eyes of an Arab, for

he had become a leading member of a band of freebooters who had lately

exercised their vocation with no little success in the province of

Siout.

They were mostly Arabs from the interior of the Tunis and Tripoli

deserts, who, having performed the pilgrimage to Mecca by way of Keneh

and Cosseir, left the caravan on its return and levied blackmail on the

villages of the left banks of the river in Upper Egypt. In order to

avoid suspicion, Abou-Hamedi had located his family, and a few others of

the Gemàat tribe who had accompanied him from Damanhour, on the spot

where they were now encamped, on the right or eastern bank of the river,

where they cultivated a small tract of ground, and passed for

industrious, inoffensive people, as indeed they were, with the exception

of Abou-Hamedi himself, whose notions of _meum_ and _tuum_ were somewhat

indistinct, and who had “exchanged horses,” as he termed it, with a rich

merchant of Siout. This exchange had been effected by the simple

presentation of a pistol at the head of the latter in an unfrequented

spot; and although Abou-Hamedi had obtained a fleet and powerful horse

in exchange for a sorry, broken-down nag, he was so ill-satisfied with

the bargain that he had politely compelled the Siout merchant to throw

in his purse as compensation.

All this he detailed with imperturbable gravity to Hassan, adding that

he and his companions always carried on their plundering expeditions on

the other side of the river, so that his encampment was undisturbed and

unsuspected. The band met at certain intervals and by preconcerted

signals; when he joined them it was by night; and among his talents one

of the most remarkable was his power of disguising himself in such a

manner that the roving freebooter of the left bank and the peaceable

fellah of the right were never suspected to be one and the same person.

Hassan was much amused by his adventures, and was pleased to find that

in the rough breast of his lawless host there existed towards himself a

feeling of gratitude and devotion that he had not expected to find: the

latter even pulled a leathern purse from his girdle and proposed to

repay a portion of the money advanced by Hassan for his liberation; but

to this he would not consent, saying, with a smile, “Not now, my

brother; I promised you that when I required it I would ask you for it.

You have a family, and I have none; keep the money, therefore, until I

ask you for it. Let us now talk of other things. Do you know whose are

those two boats which lately passed?”

“Well do I know,” replied the Arab. “They are the dahabiahs of the new

Governor of Siout, Delì Pasha.”

“True,” replied Hassan, “and I am in his service. My sister, now in your

tents, is in the Pasha’s harem: she fell overboard in the storm, and

they must think her drowned. As they must all be now searching, and

weeping and wailing, is it possible to convey her to the dahabiah

to-night, or must I go to inform them of her being safe here?”

“It is quite possible,” said Abou-Hamedi, “if she be not too feeble and

tired from having been so long in the water: we have several donkeys

here with saddles, and there is a good path to the ferry just above the

place where the boats are made fast for the night.”

By Hassan’s desire the Arab’s wife was then called, and desired to

inquire whether Amina felt herself sufficiently recovered to ride to the

ferry. An affirmative answer being eagerly returned, the donkeys were

soon caught and saddled, and the party ready for departure.

“I will not go with you myself,” said Abou-Hamedi aside to Hassan. “It

is better that none of the Governor’s people should see my face.”

“I understand,” replied Hassan, laughing; “and if I meet you in Siout, I

will take care not to know you; but as my sister is young, and

unaccustomed to the presence of men, I wish you could let one of your

harem go with her to the boats.”

The wife and sister of Abou-Hamedi had anticipated the wish. No service

that they could render seemed to them sufficient to repay their

obligation to Hassan; and the extraordinary beauty of Amina, together

with the gentle gratitude which she had shown for their attentions, had

so won their affections that they determined not to leave her until they

had seen her safely deposited in the harem. They now appeared at the

door of their tent ready for their night journey, Amina clad from head

to foot in the warmest clothes they possessed, her own wet suit wrapped

in a bundle and intrusted to one of the three young Arabs selected to

guide the party to the ferry, while one ran on before to rouse up the

ferryman and to get ready his boat. The easiest-paced donkey was

assigned to Amina, and Hassan walked beside her, his arm ever ready to

support her in case of the animal stumbling over the dimly-seen bushes

or earth-clods that might obstruct the path.

What a delicious hour for the lovers. Amina, now warmly clad and free

from all alarm, recalled to mind the brief and thrilling moments in

which she had exchanged with Hassan the confession of their mutual love;

and as they spoke together in Turkish, which none of the party but

themselves understood, they renewed the same sweet confession in a

thousand forms of tenderness, such as love alone can invent, and in

which love alone finds no satiety.

“I am very jealous,” said Amina, while the little hand that trustfully

reposed in his belied her words. “Do you know, Hassan, that these Arab

women, both of whom are young, and one of them very comely, have done

nothing but talk to me of my brother’s amiability and generosity? They

say that their service, their lives, all that they have, are at your

disposal. When and how did you steal away their hearts, Hassan?”

“Perhaps they told you,” he replied, “of a service which I rendered to

the family, and their gratitude overrates its extent. They have kind

hearts, I believe, and this is the custom of kind hearts. Look at

yourself, sweet light of my eyes; you have filled my lonely heart with a

joy it never knew before—you have quenched its burning thirst; from the

Keswer of your love you have turned the night of my destiny into the

sunshine of noon; you have bestowed on a humble _aga_, of unknown birth,

who has nought but his truth and his sword, a treasure which the highest

and the wealthiest in the land would be proud to solicit; and yet it is

scarce an hour since you, teller of sweet untruths, said that you were

my debtor.”

“Is life and all that makes it dear no debt, Hassan?” replied Amina.

“If you will have it so,” said Hassan, smiling, “you shall be my debtor,

as the earth is debtor to the showery cloud, and repays it with a

thousand fruits and flowers delicious to the taste. Yet, sweet light of

my eyes, forget not that again our separation is at hand: at Siout you

will be shut up in the harem, offers of marriage from the great and the

rich will be made to your father, he will urge you to consent—how can

you resist his will?”

“Hassan,” replied Amina, with a firmness and solemnity of which he had

scarcely thought her capable, “I love my father, and it would grieve me

to disobey him, but Allah is greater than he. I have sworn, and I repeat

the vow, by your mother’s head, that neither force nor entreaty shall

induce me to marry another. If destiny forbids our union, I can die.”

“Allah forbid!” said Hassan, pressing her hand to his lips. “Destiny

will not be so cruel. But tell me, as it seems to me necessary to my

life that I should sometimes see your blessed face, even if it be for a

moment and afar off—tell me, do you know the cry of the wit-wat?”[99]

“I believe not,” said Amina, laughing. “Why do you ask?”

Turning aside his head for a moment, he imitated the cry of the bird so

exactly that the most experienced fowler would have thought that a

curlew had just passed by.

“Be it my task,” he said, “to find out the window of your apartment.

When you hear that cry after sunset you will know that your wit-wat is

watching below it for a glance from those loved eyes, or a word from

that tongue which is more musical than ‘the bird of a thousand

songs.’”[100]

Thus discoursing they reached the ferry, and crossed it without

accident. On approaching the spot on the opposite bank where the

dahabiahs had come-to for the night, they could see by the number of

moving lights and figures on the bank that all the party was still astir

and in unwonted agitation. One of the Arab youths who had accompanied

our hero and his fair charge ran forward at full speed until he reached

the boats, where he shouted at the top of his voice, “The Khanum is

safe; Hassan has drawn her out of the river. They are coming.”

The news spread with the rapidity of lightning. Men and women, masters

and servants, all crowded forward to greet the advancing party; and

Amina, on dismounting from her donkey, found herself in the arms of her

beloved Fatimeh, who had been nearly deprived of reason by the supposed

loss of her young mistress, whom she loved like a daughter.

The Arab women who accompanied her, and whose kind and hospitable

attentions to her wants she explained, were taken into the harem cabin

and so loaded with kisses, caresses, and presents that they began to

think that Amina must be a daughter of Mohammed Ali himself, that her

recovery should be attended with such extraordinary and generous

demonstrations; nor were the Arabs without entertained with less

hospitable warmth.

As for Hassan, the eunuchs of the harem crowded round him to kiss his

hand, and the tears of the faithful creatures bore testimony to the

attachment which they felt towards their young mistress, whose life he

had saved. Neither on board nor on the bank was there any thought of

sleep that night. The tale of Amina’s miraculous escape was repeated

from mouth to mouth, with a score of variations and exaggerations, by

groups assembled around blazing fires on the bank, while interminable

pipes and coffee beguiled the hours of night.

Hassan contrived ere long to withdraw from these wonder-loving circles

to a spot where he was able to enjoy in quiet the hearty congratulations

of Ahmed Aga, and one or two others of his intimate companions.

On the following morning the Arab party returned to their encampment,

loaded with presents forced upon them by the generosity of the Pasha’s

major-domo and the ladies of the harem, while the dahabiahs pursued

their course without accident or interruption to Siout.

The official residence assigned to the Governor was a large and

tolerably convenient house, which had been built not many years before

by order of Ibrahim Pasha, at the northern extremity of the town. The

front looked upon an open square or _meidàn_, where the troops were

paraded; while the back, occupied by the harem, was surrounded by

gardens in which orange, lemon, and pomegranate trees flourished in

considerable abundance.

Love, though proverbially blind to danger and to consequences, is

quick-sighted and quick-witted. Thus not many days had elapsed ere the

cry of the wit-wat was heard under one of the windows that looked upon

the garden; the casement was cautiously half-opened, and the lovers

enjoyed a few moments of stolen conversation, which, for fear of being

overheard, they carried on chiefly by signs and glances, or as the Arab

distich has it—

“Walls have ears, and rivals are ever on the watch.

Our tongues were silent; but our eyes mutually spoke, and were

understood.”

Notwithstanding these precautions, it unfortunately happened that one

evening a gardener, who had remained beyond the usual hours of labour,

saw Hassan spring over the wall at the bottom of the garden. Impelled by

curiosity, he watched our hero’s movements, heard his signal, and saw a

window in the harem half-opened, partially disclosing a woman’s form, to

whom Hassan addressed a few words in an impassioned undertone.

No sooner was the casement reclosed and Hassan had retired from the

garden than the gardener emerged from his hiding-place, and, in the

anticipation of a good reward, hastened to communicate what he had seen

to Ferraj, the confidential servant of Osman Bey, the deputy-governor,

with whom he, the gardener, happened to be acquainted.

Ferraj being the unworthy pander to his master’s passions in sensuality

as in revenge, and who instinctively knew the hatred which he bore to

Hassan, hastened to impart to his chief the information he had received.

A grim smile passed over the features of Osman Bey. He had already heard

of Amina’s rescue by the devoted courage of Hassan, and easily divined

the object which led him to the garden. He anticipated, therefore, the

double satisfaction of punishing a man whom he hated for an infraction

of the sanctity of the harem, and of wounding by publicity the tenderest

feelings of Delì Pasha, whom he both feared and disliked.

“Take with you,” he said, “three stout fellows and conceal yourselves in

the garden after sunset, according to the directions given you by the

gardener; repeat this every evening until you find this insolent

harem-breaker. Have with you a large cloak and some cord; while he is

looking up at the window throw the cloak over him and bind him fast, for

the fellow is strong and active as a wild ox,[101] and might otherwise

escape. When you have got him, bring him straightway before me.”

These instructions were only too punctually executed, and two or three

evenings after, just as Hassan had reached the spot from which he gave

his accustomed signal, and was watching for the opening of the casement,

a large blanket was thrown over his head from behind, and, before he

could extricate his limbs from its folds, he was thrown to the ground

and bound hand and foot. In this condition he was carried before Osman

Bey, who, in order to make his crime as public as possible, summoned

Ahmed Aga and all the chief officers of Delì Pasha’s household to attend

the investigation.

The news spread like wildfire throughout the palace and the neighbouring

houses, so that in less than an hour the Bey’s divan was crowded with

wondering spectators. Investigation was scarcely required, for the

evidence was clear; the culprit had been taken in the forbidden

precincts. The gardener swore to the fact of the casement having been

twice opened, and that a woman appearing there had held communication

with the prisoner; while the eunuchs of the harem, when interrogated,

could not deny that the casement in question belonged to the Lady

Amina’s private apartment.

Osman Bey, cloaking his revengeful hatred towards Hassan under a

semblance of zeal for the Pasha’s honour, ordered a pair of iron

manacles to be fixed on the prisoner’s wrists, and then having caused

the cords and blanket in which he had been bound to be removed, ordered

him to stand up and state what he had to say in his defence.

Hassan, drawing himself proudly up to his full height, and darting on

Osman Bey a glance of withering scorn, replied in a loud voice, “Delì

Pasha is father of the lady and Governor of the province; for him I

reserve what I have to say: to you I shall give no reply.”

“Take him to the guard-house prison,” cried Osman Bey in a fury; “we

will see if that insolent tongue will not find another kind of speech

to-morrow. Let four soldiers with loaded pistols attend him to prison

and watch at the door: if he escapes, their lives shall answer for it.”

After Hassan had been removed in obedience to this order, Osman Bey

remained for some time in consultation with the commander of the troops

and other officers respecting the punishment to be inflicted on Hassan.

Ahmed Aga lingered among these, and in order to disarm the

Vice-Governor’s suspicions of his sentiments towards the prisoner, he

was loud in his condemnation of the offence, although he took no part in

the discussion that arose regarding the punishment.

Osman Aga declared that the honour of the Pasha required it to be both

prompt and severe, so as to deter others from invading the sanctity of

his harem, and before the consultation closed he avowed his

determination to have Hassan publicly beaten on the following morning in

the open _meidàn_ in front of the palace, and be afterwards reconveyed

to prison to await Delì Pasha’s arrival. Ahmed Aga, who well knew that

all opposition to a decision based on motives of personal revenge and

hatred would be fruitless, feigned acquiescence in its justice, and

suggested to the Governor that it would be improper that the prisoner

should be confined and punished in the dress of _khaznadâr_ to the

Pasha: he proposed, therefore, that he should be authorised to see him

deprived of his household dress and arms, and that he should be clad in

a costume more befitting his disgraced position.

To this Osman Bey, willingly assenting, gave an order that the prison

should be opened to Ahmed Aga to allow him to make the change; but he

knew so well Hassan’s popularity in the Pasha’s household, that he

intrusted the custody of the prisoner, both in prison and at the place

of punishment, solely to his own followers and to the soldiers now under

his orders as Vice-Governor.

Ahmed Aga, having provided himself with a suit of clothes such as was

worn by the humbler attendants of the Pasha, proceeded in company with

two of Osman Bey’s followers to the prison, and being aware that his

every word and gesture would be closely watched and reported, he

affected a tone of the greatest harshness in addressing the prisoner.

Hassan, to whom his secret motives were unknown, was more hurt at the

conduct of his former friend than he could have been by any indignity

inflicted on him by the spite of Osman Bey. Had he known Latin and

history, he might have ejaculated, “_Et tu, Brute!_” but as it was, he

observed a proud and haughty silence while delivering over his

_khaznadâr_ dress, together with his shawl-girdle, purse, and dagger, of

all of which Ahmed Aga took possession. Scanning with a rapid glance the

walls and dimensions of the prison, Ahmed Aga noticed that it was

lighted only by one small aperture, so high that escape was impossible;

and he had already heard the orders given to the sentries who paced

before the door with loaded pistols, and who knew that their lives were

made answerable for the prisoner’s safety.

“Give him bread and water,” said he to the guards, “and let him have a

light burning in the cell; it may be useful if you want to look in at

any hour before morning to see what he is doing. He is a desperate

fellow; beware, my men, that you do not let him escape.”

“You may trust us for that,” they replied gruffly, “as we have no wish

to take his place or share his punishment.”

Poor Hassan made his solitary bread-and-water meal with the proud

stoicism of a Bedouin, though his heart bled at the apparently hopeless

issue of his love and the treacherous ingratitude of Ahmed Aga.

The early hours of the night had passed, and he was just about to lose a

sense of his troubles and dangers in sleep, when he was aroused by

seeing something drop near his feet, which had evidently been thrown in

at the aperture in the wall. Reaching out his manacled hand, he found it

to be a lump of clay, to which was attached a note containing a small

file and the following words:—

“LIGHT OF MY EYES, BELOVED FRIEND,—Your condition is very perilous; all

I could do I have done. Osman Aga swears you shall be publicly beaten

to-morrow, and he will keep his oath. The place will be the wooden

pillar in the middle of the _meidàn_; if you try to escape before you

reach it you will be killed, according to his orders. The cords by which

they tie you will be rotten; with the file you can cut nearly through

one of the manacles near the wrist, where the cut will not be seen, and

you may then break them with a sudden effort. Immediately in front of

the post will sit the Bey, and behind him you will see a large clump of

date-trees, at the back of which is a ruined sheik’s tomb, where you

will find your clothes, your arms, and your horse ready saddled; if you

have courage and fortune to reach that spot you are safe. You must turn

northward behind the date-trees, and I will direct the pursuit westwards

toward the desert. Allah bless you. I have been obliged to seem your

enemy to obtain the means of serving you, but Hassan knows the truth of

this heart and hand.”

“I should have known and trusted,” said Hassan, pacing up and down his

cell in agitation; “but I doubted thee, Ahmed, and am unworthy of thy

friendship.”

After giving himself up awhile to these thoughts, he reverted to the

letter. “Beaten!” he said, while he crushed the paper in his gyved hand.

“I, Hassan, the Child of the Pyramid, whose lance has emptied the

saddles of warriors; I, the betrothed of Amina, to be exposed in the

_meidàn_ and beaten like a thief or a slave—by Allah! rather will I die

ten thousand deaths.” He cast his eye scornfully down on the rusty

manacles that fettered his wrists. “Fools,” said he, “to think that the

hands of Hassan could be held by brittle toys like these! The intention

of Ahmed in sending me the file was friendly, and it may yet be needed,

but not now. The slaves might examine these chains before leading me

out, and my escape be thus rendered impossible.”

So saying, he hid the file in the folds of a linen girdle that supported

his _serwal_ (or drawers), and having carefully reperused Ahmed’s letter

so as to fix it firmly in his memory, he tore it piecemeal and buried it

in the dust in a corner of his cell, so that in case he should fall in

his attempted escape there might not be found anything to compromise his

friend.

Having made these preparations and recited his evening prayer, he lay

down and slept soundly till he was awakened by the drawing of the bolts

of the prison-door, and the entrance of half-a-dozen armed men appointed

to conduct him to the place of punishment.

In obedience to their orders, before leaving the prison they examined

the manacles, which Hassan held up to their inspection with an air of

good-humoured confidence, which, together with his noble and

distinguished mien, impressed the rough fellows in his favour.

They were strangers to him personally, but they thought it a pity that

so handsome a youth should be subjected to a degrading punishment for

speaking a few words in the garden beneath the window of a Khanum whose

life he had saved only a few days before. However, they knew Osman Bey’s

character, and dared not disobey his orders, so they marched their

prisoner to the appointed spot, where a man stood ready to tie his hands

to the post mentioned in Ahmed’s letter.

While performing this office, his back being turned to the Bey, a single

wink of the eye sufficed to show to Hassan that he was a friend, and

that the cord was either half-cut or rotten. Osman Bey sat on a

cushioned carpet smoking his chibouq, some of the officers of his

household standing on either side, while behind him Hassan recognised

many friendly faces of Delì Pasha’s attendants, on which sympathy and

indignation were legibly written: beyond these again he noticed the

palm-grove, where his horse and liberty awaited him if he could escape

from stab or bullet on the way. The attempt seemed desperate; yet,

although Hassan had resolved to risk it, none could read any agitation

or emotion in that calm, proud eye, which, after surveying the

surrounding crowd, rested its scornful glance on the Vice-Governor.

“Osman Bey,” said Hassan in a loud, firm voice that was heard by all

present, “I warn you to desist from this unjust punishment. I have

appealed to Delì Pasha; it is he alone who should judge his own

_khaznadâr_.”

“Dog!” replied Osman Bey, “dost thou teach me my duties and my powers?

Am I not Governor till Delì Pasha arrives; and shall I not punish a

scoundrel who dares to invade his harem? I will have thy back beaten

till thou canst not speak, and I will leave thy feet for Delì Pasha to

beat till thou canst not stand. Slaves,” he continued, addressing two

men armed with sticks who had silently taken their places on each side

of the prisoner, “strike! and if you do not lay it soundly on, by my

head you shall taste the stick yourselves.”

Even as he ceased speaking the fall of a heavy blow on Hassan’s back

sounded over the _meidàn_, and an involuntary groan burst from many of

his former comrades in the Pasha’s household. Uttering the single word

“Allah!” in a voice of thunder, Hassan burst the cord that bound his

hands to the post, and dashing them apart with the full power of his

gigantic strength, the rusted manacles snapped like whipcord: a single

bound brought him to the side of the astonished Bey, who had scarcely

time to take the pipe from his mouth ere he received from the iron chain

still hanging from Hassan’s right hand a blow which broke his nose and

deluged his face in blood. Without turning even to give him a look,

Hassan dashed impetuously forward, brandishing a sword that he had

snatched from the Bey’s nearest attendant. Some made way for him

apparently paralysed by fear or surprise, some doubtless from secret

friendship, so that, here and there parrying a random cut or thrust, he

succeeded in gaining the palm-grove.

Such was Hassan’s extraordinary fleetness of foot that he had distanced

all pursuers when the Bey, rising from the ground and holding a

handkerchief to his bleeding face, roared aloud in fury to his

_kawàsses_ and Bashi-Bazouks to mount in pursuit. “A hundred purses to

any one who takes him dead or alive!”

It may well be believed that a reward of such unheard of magnitude sent

many of the greedy soldiers to their saddles with all possible speed.

Hassan meanwhile sped his way to the sheik’s tomb, beneath which he

found a friendly young Mameluke of the Pasha’s mounted and holding

Shèitan by the bridle.

“Quick, quick!” said the youth; “here is your belt and pistols—they are

primed and loaded; here your sword and dagger; in these small bags,

firmly tied to the saddle, are your clothes and purse. Away, away to the

right, round these palms; I will gallop off to the left and shout as if

in pursuit.”

With a grasp of the hand, and without exchanging another word, Hassan

fastened his arms in his girdle, and vaulting into the saddle, went off

at full speed; while the young Mameluke galloped off in the opposite

direction, shouting aloud, and followed, as he expected, by the first

horsemen who came up, and who, supposing him to be in sight of the

fugitive, hastened in pursuit, hoping to snatch from him the coveted

prize of one hundred purses.

One of the mounted _kawàsses_ only, a powerful fellow, and greedy, like

the rest, to secure the promised reward, had heard the sound of

Shèitan’s retreating hoofs, and followed in the right direction; nor was

it long ere, leaving the palm-grove and entering on the adjoining open

fields which bordered the desert, he caught a view of Hassan in full

flight before him. Well knowing that he could trust, if necessary, to

his horse’s speed, Hassan did not wish to distress him at the

commencement of a chase the length of which was uncertain. He contented

himself therefore with going on at a moderate hand-gallop, which soon

allowed the impatient _kawàss_ to gain on him. Hassan perceiving, as he

came nearer, that the man was armed like himself with sword and pistols,

drew one of the latter from his belt and quietly awaited his adversary’s

approach.

The _kawàss_, thirsting for the hundred purses, and trusting to his

skill in the use of his weapon, galloped by our hero, discharging his

pistol as he passed. The ball whizzed by Hassan’s head, but missed its

mark; and, driving the stirrup into Shèitan’s flanks, he brought him

quickly within range of his opponent, when he fired with so true an aim

that the _kawàss_ fell dead at the first shot.

“Fool!” said Hassan; “what harm had I done you that you must strive to

take me?”

He dismounted, and, seeing that no other pursuers were in sight, dressed

himself in the _kawàss’s_ clothes, and throwing the body into an

adjoining ditch, added a second brace of pistols to his own means of

defence, and led off his late opponent’s horse, which he resolved to

retain or turn loose as circumstances might render it advisable.

A few days after these events Delì Pasha, who had been released from his

attendance on the Viceroy, and had performed the voyage up the Nile in a

light Government _canjah_, arrived at Siout, where he learnt the various

“moving incidents” that had occurred in his household: the imminent

peril of his favourite child, rescued by the devoted courage of Hassan,

her name become the subject of scandal in connection with that of her

deliverer, and the disgraceful punishment awarded to his _khaznadâr_ by

Osman Bey, who, as Delì Pasha well knew, had gratified his own

revengeful hatred under a semblance of zeal for the honour of his chief.

All these things combined to rouse the feelings of the choleric old

soldier to the highest pitch of excitement. He was angry with Hassan,

angry with his daughter, angry with Osman Bey, and angry with Destiny,

which had brought all these troubles on his old age. His attendants saw

the cloud settled on his brow, and waited in silent apprehension to see

when and how the storm would burst.

At last it fell, as is too often the case in this world of injustice, on

the feeblest and most innocent head. Amina alone, of all the objects of

his wrath, was under his roof and entirely in his power; she had heard

from Fatimeh Khanum and the eunuchs the indications of her father’s

gloomy state of mind, and as on arriving he had neither come to see her

nor sent her any message of affection, she dreaded the first interview.

When, after the lapse of some days, he visited her apartment and ordered

all the attendants to retire, she advanced to meet him, and observing no

welcome sign of parental embrace, she kissed the hem of his robe and sat

down in silence at his feet.

Notwithstanding all his stoic and stern resolves, the feelings that

struggled for the mastery in his breast betrayed themselves; and as he

contemplated her surpassing loveliness, and the touching and subdued

melancholy by which it was shaded, he could not forbear the reflection

that, had it not been for the courageous devotion of Hassan, that face

and form, which he had so often caressed with all a father’s love, would

now be sleeping cold and lifeless in the muddy bed of the Nile.

“Better so than disgraced and dishonoured,” said he to himself, rousing

his own angrier passions, and giving them vent in a volume of reproaches

directed against herself and her lover. For a long time she bore them in

silence and in tears; but when at length he reproached her with giving

her affection to a nameless adventurer, and said that he would rather

see her dead than united to one who had ungratefully brought dishonour

on his house, she started to her feet, and while the eyes so lately

bathed in tears now flashed with the fire of indignation, she said—

“Father, you shall have your wish. Death has no terror for me, and I

would meet it in any hour and in any shape rather than renounce a faith

that I have plighted in the sight of Allah. Cruel and unjust father, how

dare you tax with ingratitude one who risked his own life to save that

of your child? Father, neither your anger nor your power can arrest the

decrees of destiny. Was it Hassan’s fault or was it mine that on that

dark and stormy night I was cast into the waves of the Nile? He heard a

faint cry, and though he knew not who uttered it, he plunged into those

troubled waters and reached me just as I was about to sink from cold and

exhaustion. Cheering and sustaining me, he brought me to the shore. In

the very jaws of death I vowed to devote to him the life that he had

saved; he stripped off his own cloak to shield me from the cold; he bore

me to the friendly Arab tents, and his heart beat against my heart as I

rested in his arms. He had seen my face uncovered, and we mutually swore

to love each other faithfully until separated by that death from which

we had just escaped. Cruel father, do you think that after this any

other man would wish or dare to wed your daughter? In the sight of

Allah, Hassan is my husband. The cruelty of man or Fate may doom me

never to see him again; but I warn you, father, that I am Delì Pasha’s

own daughter, and if you compel me to become the bride of another, the

bridal bed shall be the grave of one or both.”

The Pasha gazed with mingled awe and astonishment on the flashing eyes

and dilated figure of his transformed Amina as she uttered these words;

while one of her hands rested on her girdle, as if seeking the hilt of

that dagger to which her closing sentence had so plainly alluded.

“Amina,” he said in a voice rendered tremulous by emotion, “you are

right; it has been the work of destiny. I meant not to be cruel to you

or unjust to Hassan. Come to my arms.”

Who has not experienced the pleasure of seeing a dusky summer cloud,

which lately obscured the sun and sent forth the lightning’s flash and

the thunder’s growl, suddenly dissolve and pass away in gentle rain,

while the sun resumes its empire over the sky, and the shower-spangled

leaves and herbs and flowers exhale the grateful incense of their

odorous breath?

Such, only so much more lovely as moral is superior to natural beauty,

was the change wrought in Amina by a word of parental love. Throwing

herself into his arms with a wild cry of irrepressible joy, she looked

up in his face, and pressing his hand fondly to her lips, said—

“Father, dear father, I fear that my words have pained you; tell me that

you forgive me. I can bear anything but to hear him ill-spoken of; then

my heart jumps to my mouth, and my tongue knows no restraint; but now I

am your own little Amina again. Kiss me, and love me, dear father, and,

Inshallah! I will never do anything to offend you.”

Delì Pasha could not trust himself to speak, but he folded her to his

heart in a silence more eloquent than words, and the reconciliation

between father and daughter was complete.

Often afterwards, when alone together, they spoke of Hassan, and

wondered what had become of him, till at length reports reached them

which, although they threw a light upon his fate, filled them with grief

and dismay.

In order to explain these more fully we must resume the thread of our

narrative at the point where we left our hero clad in the dress of the

_kawàss_ whom he had despoiled, and journeying northward along the

border of the desert, leading his spare horse by the bridle.

He had travelled some four or five hours at a round pace without

halting, when he met half-a-dozen wild-looking Bedouin Arabs,

well-mounted and armed with lance and sword. Forgetting at the moment

that the dress which he wore might not find favour in the eyes of these

children of the desert, he rode forward to meet them, when one who

seemed their leader, after conversing for a few moments with his

companions, called aloud to him—

“Halt, you _kawàss_, servant of some grasping Turk; if you would have us

spare your life, dismount and give us up those two horses.”

“I am no _kawàss_,” replied Hassan, addressing the surprised Arabs in

the deep-toned guttural accents of a Bedouin, “but a son of the desert

like yourselves. ’Tis but a few hours since a _kawàss_ attacked me, and

I killed him and took his horse. If you wish to fight, the same arms

that killed him are ready for you. If you desire peace, Bismillah! I am

your friend.”

While speaking, he deliberately drew a pistol from his girdle and

brought round the hilt of his sword ready for his hand. The Bedouins

were completely puzzled by his appearance and language; his powerful

figure, noble mien, and the perfect coolness with which he challenged

six men to combat, compelled their involuntary admiration, while his

dress denoted hostility to their predatory band, and his horses excited

their cupidity.

While they were holding a brief consultation as to the course which they

should pursue, another Arab belonging to their party, who had followed

them at some distance, came up: he was a broad-shouldered, stout fellow,

with a black patch covering one-half of his face, and from the eagerness

with which they crowded round him it was evident that his voice was not

without weight among them.

“Let me see this _kawàss_ who pretends to be a Bedouin,” said he,

pushing his way through them; “I will soon tell you whether he be lion

or jackal.” So saying, he advanced to within a few yards of our hero.

“Mashallah! Mashallah!” exclaimed the new-comer; and, to the

astonishment of his comrades, he jumped off his horse, and running up to

Hassan, kissed his hand, crying aloud, “Ya sidi, ya sidi,—My master, my

master,—do you not know your faithful Abou-Hamedi?”

It was, indeed, no less a personage than our old friend the Damanhouri

whom Hassan had thus unexpectedly encountered, and who was now out upon

a marauding expedition with a fragment of the lawless and numerous band

of which he was a member.

“The black patch could not disguise Abou-Hamedi from the eyes of a

friend,” replied Hassan, cordially returning his greeting. In a few

minutes hasty salutations and mutual inquiries had passed, and Hassan

found himself on his way to the Bedouin encampment, where he was invited

to sup and pass the night.

Abou-Hamedi took the bridle of the led horse, and treated our hero with

such evident deference that the other Arabs unconsciously adopted a

similar manner towards him, and he entered their encampment rather with

the air of its chieftain than of a homeless fugitive.

The band consisted of forty-five or fifty men, who were sitting in a

circle round a large fire, at which a couple of black slaves were

roasting several sheep and baking Arab bread on the cinders. The horses

were picketed in a semicircle at the back of the party, and other black

slaves were bringing them their evening supply of forage. Tents there

were none, these hardy sons of the desert contenting themselves with a

blanket for a bed and the open sky for a canopy.

Hassan saw at a glance that more than half of the band were Arabs from

the West—rough, powerful fellows, who, having come across the Great

Desert to perform the pilgrimage to Mecca, had on their return been

attracted by the “fleshpots of Egypt,” and had remained behind to do a

little business in the plundering line, while the rest of their caravan

had continued its course to the desert borders of Tripoli and Tunis. The

residue of the party was composed of Arabs who were either outlawed for

some offence against the Egyptian Government or had been compelled to

fly from some Bedouin tribe to avoid retaliation for a deed of blood.

Hassan had no sooner taken his seat among them than he was expected and

requested to relate the circumstances which had brought him among them

in the dress of a Turkish _kawàss_, and with iron manacles attached to

each wrist. This he did in a simple and unpretending manner, which would

have carried conviction with it even without the confirmatory evidence

of the manacle chain which still hung from his right hand.

The Bedouins listened with grave attention and interest to his tale, and

at the end of it Abou-Hamedi drew near to his side, and asking him for

the file which the forethought of Ahmed had provided, set about the task

of delivering our hero from bracelets which were neither convenient nor

ornamental. This was a more tedious task than it appeared; and when at

length they were removed, they were passed from hand to hand, the Arabs

casting their eyes from the broken chain to the powerful limbs which it

had failed to fetter, and paying that involuntary tribute to lofty

stature and manly beauty which these qualities command still more in

savage than in civilised life.

No sooner was Hassan relieved from his gyves than he rose up and went to

see that his faithful Shèitan was duly cleaned and fed. He found a

grinning negro belonging to Abou-Hamedi already employed on this

service, whose goodwill he further stimulated by a smile of

encouragement and a five-piastre piece slipped into his palm. The horse

taken from the _kawàss_ likewise received his due allowance, and both it

and Shèitan were provided with a coarse rug to protect them against the

cold of approaching night.

While Hassan was thus engaged, and in the subsequent recital of his

sunset prayers, which, like a true Mussulman, he never omitted in any

presence or under any circumstances, Abou-Hamedi was eloquently

haranguing the listening Arabs concerning his character and qualities.

He related to them how he himself owed his life and liberty to Hassan’s

youthful generosity; and after extolling in the highest terms his

deliverer’s daring courage and aptitude for command, he proposed that

the band should invite him to become their leader.

One of the party, named Abou-Hashem, who had hitherto acted in that

capacity, listened to this address with a clouded brow. He was a strong,

active man, well skilled in the use of his weapons, bold and resolute in

danger, and versed in the various modes of Arab warfare. He expressed

his dissent from the proposal of Abou-Hamedi, and said that he for one

would not agree to surrender his own claims to command to a stranger,

and one of less age and experience than himself. Abou-Hamedi replied,

and the discussion was so warmly sustained on both sides that they did

not perceive the return of Hassan, who had taken his seat in the circle

and listened to the arguments of the disputants.

“Let this discussion cease, my brothers,” he said in a voice whose deep

authoritative tone commanded general attention. “I seek not to be your

leader, and would not accept the charge otherwise than by your unanimous

choice. So long as I remain among you I will be faithful to your cause;

and if I see amongst you treachery or cruelty, or aught else that I do

not approve, I shall leave you and follow my solitary path. In a band

like this, where there is no hereditary title to command, the boldest

heart, the strongest hand, and the wisest head must be your chief. In

the first fair day of fight that we may have, show me the man who is

first in the fray, stoutest in the _mêlée_, and last to leave it,—let

him be our leader; I will cheerfully follow and obey him.”

This speech was received with general acclamation. The party having set

their guards, retired to rest, and thus Hassan found himself transformed

from a Turkish _khaznadâr_ into a comrade of predatory outlaws.

Not a week had passed ere Abou-Hamedi went disguised into Siout to

perform various commissions and to gather information. On his return he

told his companions that after two days the great annual caravan of

_gellabs_ (slave-dealers) was about to set out for the Soudan; that

their sacks would be full of money and trinkets for the purchase of

slaves; and that they were to be escorted by fifty Bashi-Bazouks, or

irregular Turkish cavalry.

He also informed them that he had seen Osman Bey in his divan with a

large black plaster covering his broken nose and lacerated cheek, at

which intelligence a smile of satisfaction played over Hassan’s

features, which had worn an unusually grave expression. It was

unanimously resolved to plunder the caravan, and a council was held as

to the place and plan of attack, in which Abou-Hamedi and Abou-Hashem,

as being best acquainted with the localities, were the principal

speakers. After the council had broken up, Abou-Hamedi retired with

Hassan, and produced from his saddle-bags a complete Bedouin dress,

which our hero gladly donned in place of the Turkish costume which he

had of late been accustomed to wear.

On the day fixed for the departure of the _gellabs_, our band, guided by

Abou-Hamedi and Abou-Hashem, was posted behind a desert sandhill on the

caravan-road to the south, at a distance of about fifteen miles from

Siout. Swords were loosened in their scabbards, the priming of pistols

and the points of lances duly examined, when towards four in the

afternoon the caravan was seen slowly approaching, half of the armed

escort in front, half in the rear, with the wealthy _gellabs_ and their

baggage containing money, jewels, trinkets, and numerous sets of

manacles, in the centre.

Our Bedouins were awaiting them in profound silence, when suddenly their

ambush was betrayed by one of their horses, a fiery and impatient

animal, that began to neigh, snort, and execute various curvetings which

exposed his rider to the view of the leading soldiers of the escort,

who, seeing that the Bedouin endeavoured again to find concealment

behind the sandhill, suspected the true state of the case and began to

look to their arms and prepare for action.

“Upon them at once,” shouted Hassan, “and overthrow them before the

rear-guard has time to come up to their support! Strike only the

soldiers; the merchants and travellers must be ours.”

As he spoke these words he struck the stirrups in Shèitan, and charged

at headlong speed the leading column. It was in vain that Abou-Hashem,

jealous of his honour, strove to be first in the fray: he urged his

horse with voice and stirrup, but before he came up Hassan had already

emptied two troopers’ saddles, and was dealing death among their

fellows, uttering terrific shouts that rose high above the din of arms

and the cries of the dismayed merchants.

At first the freebooters seemed about to gain an easy victory, but the

rear-guard of the escort came up, and for some time the fight was

continued upon nearly equal terms. Abou-Hashem, who fought that day with

a fierce emulation, was wounded in the sword-arm by a pistol-shot, and

having been thrown from his horse, was about to be despatched by a

trooper, when Hassan’s sword flashed above his head and the trooper fell

senseless beside the body of his intended victim.

To dismount from his horse and remount his fallen comrade was to Hassan

the work of a moment: springing again on the back of Shèitan, he plunged

into the thickest of the _mêlée_, and ere long the discomfited troopers

were in rapid flight towards Siout.

The Bedouins, not caring to pursue them, surrounded the caravan and

commenced the work of plunder and distribution of the spoil with a

readiness and order which proved them to be adepts at the trade. Hassan

stood at a little distance wiping his stained sword and tying a

handkerchief over a flesh-wound in the arm, from which the blood freely

flowed.

The booty proved greater than the most sanguine of the Bedouins had

expected, and Abou-Hashem himself proposed and demanded that the

leader’s share should be set apart for Hassan. Our hero, scarcely

deigning to cast a glance at the heap thus placed before him, gave his

hand to his late rival, and inquired kindly after his hurt. Abou-Hashem

felt that, morally and physically, he was in presence of a superior, and

from that day Hassan was uncontested chief of the band.

The merchants and other trafficking members of the caravan, with their

servants, sat in melancholy silence on the ground, looking on at the

distribution of their goods and money among the captors.

When Hassan, at the request of Abou-Hamedi, condescended to examine the

share of booty allotted to him, he found that it consisted of two black

slaves, three mules, a number of jewels and trinkets, and nearly £100 in

money. Of the slaves, one was a sickly-looking youth, to whom Hassan

gave a piece of money, saying, “Go where you will—you are free.”

The other was a tall, powerful fellow, with a look of pride and

resolution in his eye which pleased Hassan’s taste: he was a native of

Darfour, and had accompanied the caravan as an interpreter among the

tribes of that region. In appearance he was more like one of the Lucumi,

or other warrior tribes of South-Western Africa, than the woolly-headed

negroes usually met with in the Egyptian slave-market. At his girdle

hung a short club made of the heavy ironwood of his native land, and in

his hand he carried a long stick or cane, one end of which was tipped

with a kind of fibrous cover of basket-work, while at the other end was

an iron hook, which gave to the stick the appearance of a shepherd’s

crook.

“What is your name, and whence are you?” inquired Hassan.

“From Darfour, and my name Abd-hoo,” replied the black.[102]

“Have you been a warrior in your own country?”

“I have seen some fighting,” said Abd-hoo with a grim smile.

“Why did you not, then, fight when we attacked your caravan?”

“Because that _gellab_ broke his faith. He promised me forty piastres

a-month and has paid me only twenty. I would not move a finger to save

his life.”

As he said this he pointed to one of the slave-dealers, who was looking

in mute despair on his rifled bags and boxes.

“If your muscles answer to your appearance, you should be a strong

fellow,” said Hassan.

“Try me,” replied the black, thrusting out from beneath his blanket an

arm that would have done credit to the champion of the fistic ring in

England.

A laugh among the Bedouins followed this sally of the sturdy negro.

Hassan noticed it, and simply answering, “I will try a wrestling

fall[103] with you, and if you throw me you shall go free,” threw off

his _abah_ (outer Arab scarf) and laid aside his weapons. The negro

followed the example, and though he was half a head short of Hassan in

stature, the vast size of his bull neck and shoulders, and the muscular

development of his arms and legs, created an impression among the

Bedouins (none of whom, excepting Abou-Hamedi, had any experience of

Hassan’s extraordinary powers) that their newly-appointed chief would be

no match for the Darfouri.

When, however, they grappled, and all the sleights and desperate

exertions of the negro failed to move Hassan from his firm position of

defence, or to disturb the quiet and confident smile that played upon

his countenance, it soon became as evident to the bystanders as it was

to Abd-hoo that he was in the grip of his master, and not many minutes

elapsed before he measured his length upon the sand.

Hassan then resumed his _abah_ and his weapons, and continued the

conversation with his defeated opponent as if nothing had occurred to

interrupt it.

“Abd-hoo, you are a stout fellow, though you have yet some sleights to

learn in wrestling. Canst thou be faithful?”

“Where I promise I keep my word,” said the negro.

“Enough,” replied Hassan; “I want no slave. Here is a piece of gold for

you; take it. You are free to go where you will or to serve me: if you

choose the latter, you shall have your share of my bread and my purse.”

“I will follow you to death,” replied Abd-hoo, looking up to his new

master with a reverence inspired by those physical powers which, in his

rude breast, afforded the highest claim to respect.

Hassan, having given into his charge the horses which had fallen to his

share, cast his eyes over the disconsolate group of merchants and their

followers, among whom his quick eye detected a feeble old man whom he

had more than once seen at the Governor’s house at Siout. Approaching

him, he inquired what had brought him on this route.

“My son is a merchant who deals in gum and senna in Soudan,” replied the

old man. “He has fallen into illness and trouble, and I was going to

Dongola to see him, and to give some money to the Governor’s secretary

to get him released from trouble. Now my fifty dollars and my mule have

been taken from me, I am ruined and my son is lost.”

“I hope your case is not so bad,” said Hassan, smiling good-humouredly;

“here are one hundred dollars to make good your loss. You must now

return to Siout, and, Inshallah! you will soon set out again for Soudan

with a better escort and a more fortunate caravan.” He then turned to

the group of _gellabs_, and said in a voice that carried dismay to their

already trembling hearts—

“Hark ye, I know you all, and shall know all your doings in Siout: if ye

dare to touch one _para_ of what I have given to this old man, your

lives shall answer for it. Now gather up what you have left of clothes

and goods and be gone.”

The discomfited traders collected the goods and the sorrier nags and

mules which the freebooters had left as useless to themselves and

retraced their way to Siout, while Hassan and his band went off with

their booty into the desert.

The news of this audacious _razzia_, exaggerated as it was by the

defeated troopers and the despoiled _gellabs_, created the greatest

consternation in Siout. Hassan’s band was magnified into a force of two

or three hundred ferocious and well-armed desperadoes, and he himself

into some _jinn_ or _afreet_ in human shape, equally proof against

lance, sword, or bullet.

Osman Bey was furious at this new triumph of his mortal enemy, the more

so as a portion of the money captured by the Bedouins had been advanced

by himself to the _gellabs_ on speculation.

Delì Pasha was scarcely less vexed at the lawless and desperate course

of life on which his late favourite had been driven to enter, although

his former feelings towards him were kept alive by the trait of

compassionate generosity which he had shown to the old man, who had

himself related it to the Pasha with tears in his eyes. Hassan’s warning

threats to the _gellabs_ had not been without effect, for none had dared

to take from him a _para_ of the hundred dollars given to him by the

dreaded leader of the plundering band. The latter ere long acquired a

notoriety equalled by that of Robin Hood in the olden time of England;

nor were Hassan’s character and conduct very different from those of our

prince of archers and foresters. To take from the rich and bestow

generously on the poor and oppressed was the base of his system. Thus in

every village he had voluntary and grateful spies, who gave him timely

notice of the approach of any troops sent against him, and according to

their numerical force or his own inclination, he either defeated or

eluded them.

The attention of Mohammed Ali was ere long aroused by the depredations

of this formidable band; but although he sent the most angry and severe

orders to his provincial governors to seize the audacious rebel who set

his authority at defiance, their exertions remained infructuous.

Tales of Hassan’s deeds of prowess, daring, and generosity became

current among the villagers of the whole valley of the Nile, among whom

he was generally spoken of as “Hassan eed-el-maftouha,” or

“eed-el-hadid”—that is, “Hassan of the open hand” (_i.e._, the

generous), or “Hassan of the iron hand”; and the provincial governors

were completely stupefied by his apparent power of ubiquity, for no

sooner did one of them send a force in pursuit of him near some village

where his presence had lately been reported, than they heard of his

having plundered some Sheik-el-Beled or caravan one hundred miles off.

This latter circumstance, though devised by Hassan, was carried out by

the versatile talents of Abou-Hamedi, who had secret friends and spies

in most of the Nile villages. These fellows were instructed from time to

time to run to the nearest town or residence of a governor bawling for

help, and stating that they had seen Hassan and his band prowling near

their village on the preceding night. Soldiers would be sent to watch

for him, and then news would arrive that some depredation had been

committed by his band in another province.

Meanwhile Hassan did not neglect the precaution of maintaining a good

understanding with the Bedouin tribes: totally indifferent to money

himself, all his share of booty that he did not bestow on the poor and

helpless he gave in presents to the most powerful of the Bedouin sheiks,

so that when Mohammed Ali tried to employ against Hassan his favourite

method of “setting a thief to catch a thief,” by calling upon some of

the Arab chiefs to assist in apprehending our hero, they apparently

obeyed the Viceroy’s wishes, but it was after having sent a secret and

timely notice to Hassan, and, as might be expected, their ostensible

efforts were without result.

We have said that the wild and lawless career upon which our hero had

entered caused deep regret to Delì Pasha, and it may be imagined that it

caused the tears of his daughter to flow. Neither these tears nor these

regrets were much diminished by a letter which the Pasha one day

received, and which was brought by a stranger, who disappeared as soon

as he had delivered it. Allowing for the difference between Turkish and

English idiom, it ran as follows:—

“_To the High in Rank, the Honourable and Honoured

Delì Pasha, Governor of Siout._

“Hassan, his faithful servant, having been driven from his honourable

place in his Excellency’s service, and having been degraded in the eyes

of the household and others by the tyranny of Osman Bey, has had no

other choice than to maintain his honour and life as the chief of a

Bedouin band. He may be exiled—outlawed, perhaps—if such be the will of

Allah, put to death by the Egyptian Government, but no act of cowardice,

treachery, or cruelty on his part shall cause his Excellency to blush

for having once extended to Hassan his generous protection. His life is

in the hands of Allah; but so long as it endures, his thoughts, his

hopes, his heart, and his faith are a sacrifice at the feet of Amina,

and his prayers are for her and for her honoured father.”

Nothing can be more dull, hot, and disagreeable than a summer in Upper

Egypt; we therefore take the liberty of skipping over the following six

months, briefly mentioning the changes that took place in the destinies

of our principal _dramatis personæ_.

Mr Thorpe and all his party had gone to pass the summer among the cool

breezes of the Lebanon; but as the health of his daughter caused him

some disquietude, he had determined to return to Upper Egypt in the

following winter, for which purpose he re-engaged the two dahabiahs in

which he had before made his voyage up the Nile.

Delì Pasha had obtained the Viceroy’s permission to return with his

family to Cairo, leaving Osman Bey in charge of the government of Siout;

and the latter received a significant hint from his Highness that if he

did not contrive some means of apprehending the formidable outlaw whom

his ill-timed harshness had driven to revolt, it might prove the worse

for himself.

As for our hero and his band, the heat of summer and the cold of winter

were alike to their hardy frames, and the terror of his name spread far

and wide with every succeeding month. The reports of his daring

achievements excited the Viceroy’s anger, sometimes mingled with

admiration, sometimes with mirth, which he cared not to suppress.

On one occasion Abou-Hamedi (who had received several flesh-wounds in a

late encounter) went into Siout disguised as a fellah, and, rushing into

the presence of Osman Bey, claimed redress of his wrongs, stating that

not more than five leagues from the town he had been plundered, beaten,

and wounded by Hassan and a part of his band. His ghastly appearance,

the blood on the bandages that bound his head and arm, the tone of

helpless misery in which he told his tale,—all conspired to induce the

Bey to give credit to it. A surgeon was ordered to remove the bandages,

and there were the unhealed wounds to speak for themselves.

On being asked where Hassan now was, and how many of his band were with

him, the pretended fellah named the place, and said that the greater

part of the band had gone elsewhere to plunder some caravan, and that

Hassan had with him only six or eight of his followers.

When told that he must guide a party to the place, he evinced such a

dread of Hassan, and bargained so obstinately for the amount of his

reward when the formidable chief should be captured, that all doubts of

the truth of his tale were removed.

Osman Bey resolved at once to whiten his face before the Viceroy by

heading in person the party selected for this important service, which

was to consist of twenty of the best mounted and armed of his followers,

each man being provided with a coil of cord to bind the prisoners.

Without relating all the details of the expedition, it is sufficient to

say that the unlucky Bey fell into an ambush laid with admirable skill

by Hassan. He and his party found themselves suddenly attacked in front

and in the rear by two bands, each of which was as well mounted and more

numerous than his own, so that after a brief resistance he and his

followers were all captured, and bound with the same cords which they

had brought to secure the freebooters. Their arms and horses having been

taken from them, and having been placed at some distance under a strong

guard, Hassan ordered them all to be released from their bonds; and

Osman Bey having been brought before him, he said—

“Illustrious Governor, I think that two hundred and fifty was the number

of blows which you once ordered to be administered to the back of your

humble servant, and in dealing with so high a personage I surely ought

not to show myself less liberal in my measure of reward. Neither have I

forgotten the debt that I owe you for the kindness which you showed me

in Cairo, when you endeavoured to take by treachery a life which you had

not the courage openly to attempt. Inshallah! I will now pay my debts;

after which we will be friends or enemies, as you may choose.”

At the conclusion of this address two of the freebooters stepped forward

by Hassan’s order, and, in spite of Osman Bey’s struggles and cries,

applied their courbatches vigorously to his shoulders until Hassan

called out “Enough!” They then tied him firmly, with his arms pinioned,

on a lively young donkey, to the tail of which they fastened a bunch of

prickly shrubs to quicken its movements, and having started it on the

road to Siout, left the discomfited Governor to re-enter his capital in

this humiliating guise, amid the suppressed jeers of its population.

As for the troopers, Hassan gave them a good supper, expressed to them

his regret that he could not restore to them their arms and horses,

which had become the property of his band; told them it was a great pity

that such brave, honest fellows should be obliged to serve under so

unworthy a chief, and having given each of them a present of five

piastres, told them that they were at liberty to return to their several

homes, or to their service in Siout, as it might suit their own

convenience.

On another occasion Abou-Hashem, who had been engaged with a small

portion of the band in a predatory excursion not far from the town of

Girgeh, had been attacked by a party sent for that purpose by its

governor, and in spite of a desperate resistance had been taken

prisoner. His comrades, most of them wounded, escaped and brought the

news to Hassan, who was with the remainder of the band encamped at a

well a few leagues distant from the scene of the affray.

After reproaching them bitterly for their cowardice in surviving the

capture of a comrade who had once been their chief, and after

ascertaining from them that the soldiers were too numerous to afford him

a reasonable prospect of rescue by open force, he resolved to effect it

by stratagem, or perish in the attempt. Dressing himself in his _kawàss_

costume, and taking with him only the trusty black, Abd-hoo, on whose

fidelity and presence of mind he could confidently rely, he mounted

Shèitan and set off at speed towards Girgeh, hoping to intercept the

party before they reached the immediate neighbourhood of the town. Both

he and his follower were fully armed, and the latter bore with him a

chibouq and tobacco-bag to support his character of attendant on the

supposed _kawàss_. Hassan gave his instructions to Abd-hoo as they

galloped across the plain, and the confident grin of the sturdy negro

assured him that he was understood, and would, if possible, be obeyed.

Fortune so far favoured our adventurers that several miles before

reaching Girgeh they saw the party of which they were in search seated

on the ground near a spring of water, and refreshing themselves with the

fragrant fumes of the pipe.

Slackening his speed as he approached, Hassan drew near the group, and

saluting them courteously in Turkish, sat down in the midst of them,

nearest to one who by his dress he knew to be their _yuzbashi_, or

captain, and ordering Abd-hoo to fill his pipe, our hero commenced a

conversation on the heat, and indifferent subjects, with a careless ease

that would have done honour to an old diplomatist. The captain was

charmed with the polite frankness of his new guest, who failed not to

call him colonel by mistake, and who ere long drew from him an account

of the object and success of his morning’s expedition.

No sooner did he hear that one supposed to be of some rank in the band

of the formidable Hassan had been captured than he started with feigned

surprise, and inquired, pointing to Abou-Hashem, who sat disarmed and

pinioned at some distance, whether that was the fellow whom they had

captured? A reply being given in the affirmative—

“By your head, colonel,” he said, “I will go and look at the vagabond:

they have done much evil to my lord the Pasha, and I have seen service

against them. You son of a dog,” continued he, drawing near the

prisoner, and addressing him in a loud and angry voice, “methinks you

are the very fellow who killed my brother near Siout; you have just his

ugly, villainous look, and now I will have your blood.”

So saying, he drew a sharp poniard and brandished it over the head of

the prisoner.

“Do not kill the vagabond, O Aga!” shouted the captain, still lazily

smoking his pipe, “for I hope to get five or six purses for his

apprehension: could I have caught his chief, Mashallah! I would have

claimed one hundred.”

“Inshallah! you will claim them another time,” said Hassan politely.

“Meanwhile, I must give this vagabond a prick with my poniard. I will

not touch his life, but I wish him not to forget me.”

So saying, he brandished his poniard again, and advanced close to the

prisoner in order to see how with one rapid cut he could sever his

bonds.

“Do not touch him, Aga, with your knife,” cried out Abd-hoo; “here is a

courbatch wherewith to beat him.”

Under this pretext Hassan led Shèitan and his own horse near to the

prisoner: at the distance of only a few yards a groom was holding a

horse which, from its appearance and trappings, seemed to be that of the

captain.

“Now is the moment,” whispered Hassan to Abou-Hashem; “be ready to

spring on that horse.”

As he spoke he raised his knife as if about to strike, at the same time

continuing to threaten and abuse Abou-Hashem in a loud voice, while the

Turks were laughing at the anger of Hassan and the assumed terror of the

captive, who called out “Aman! aman!” (Mercy!) With one swift stroke of

his knife he divided the cords with which he was pinioned, and,

springing aside, knocked down the unsuspecting _sàis_ who held the

captain’s horse. No sooner done than Abou-Hashem was in the saddle;

Hassan and Abd-hoo jumped on their horses, and in a second the

freebooters were at full speed on their way to the desert. Shots were

fired at them from pistols and carabines, some of which took effect, but

not enough to stop their headlong course.

Hassan received a ball in the arm and another in the side, but he

succeeded in his daring attempt. A few of the best mounted of the Turks

who were able to keep the fugitives in sight found themselves, after a

gallop of several leagues, in sight of Hassan’s band, who received their

chief and his rescued lieutenant with shouts of triumph; while the

troopers, seeing that all chance of recapturing them was hopeless,

wheeled their wearied horses towards Girgeh, glad to escape themselves

unpursued.

One other instance of our hero’s humorous audacity which reached the

Viceroy’s ears during that summer, and which excited his mirth almost as

much as his anger, deserves to be recorded.

His Highness had collected a body of troops in a camp near the town of

Esneh, in Upper Egypt, who were undergoing drill and training for

service against the refractory tribes in the Soudan.

Hassan had received intelligence from one of his spies that a large sum

of money had just been transmitted to Esneh for the payment of these

troops, and was in the keeping of a certain Moktar Effendi, who resided

in a village a few miles distant from the encampment, and who on account

of this charge was dignified in the neighbourhood by the title of

Defterdar.

Of this sum Hassan resolved to endeavour to obtain possession by

stratagem, and he set about it with the confident coolness which

characterised all his proceedings. Leaving the greater part of his band

in the desert, at a considerable distance from the village, he dressed

himself in his former _khaznadâr_ uniform, and six or eight of the most

resolute and best mounted of his followers in dresses becoming the

attendants of a man in authority, gathered from the spoils of plundered

caravans: he took with him also a firman bearing the seal of Mohammed

Ali, which had been obtained by similar means. This firman stated in

general terms that Latif-Aga, the bearer, was on duty in Upper Egypt on

Government service, and ordered the governors of towns and provinces to

afford him all necessary assistance.

Armed with this instrument, and with others of a more deadly kind in

case of necessity, Hassan proceeded leisurely about midday to the

village, having desired his followers to observe the strictest gravity

and decorum in their demeanour, and having, as usual, invested the

ready-witted and faithful Abd-hoo with the office of pipe-bearer, while

Abou-Hamedi was to be left in charge of the horses and of the

attendants, who were not expected to accompany their chief to the

presence of the Defterdar.

Hassan had no difficulty in finding the residence of that well-known

personage, and having announced himself as being charged with an

important message from the Viceroy, was immediately ushered into the

room where sat the Defterdar.

Moktar Effendi was a fat, pursy little man, and, though extremely timid,

puffed up with a high sense of his own local importance. Hassan, as is

the custom in the East, began the conversation with all sorts of

commonplace observations, which he took care to interlard with fulsome

compliments gratifying to the vanity of his host; and after two pipes

and cups of coffee had been with due ceremony discussed, he prepared to

enter upon the business with which he was supposed to be intrusted. But

having observed a small room at the side, which seemed better suited to

his purpose than the reception-room, which commanded a view of the court

below, he proposed in a confidential tone that they should retire

thither for a conference, which he said it was necessary that their

attendants should not overhear.

To this proposal the Defterdar, who had read the firman presented to him

by Hassan, made no objection, and they retired thither. No sooner were

they seated than our hero, who had taken care to place himself between

his host and the door, proceeded to inform him that he had come to

relieve him of the charge of the money which had been transmitted to him

for the payment of the troops. The astonished Defterdar said in a

hesitating tone that, although he had no doubt of the authority under

which his guest was acting, he could not transfer such a charge without

direct instructions from the Viceroy.

“I will show you the authority under which I act,” said our hero in the

same polite and affable tone which he had hitherto used; and as he spoke

he threw open his outer pelisse, and drawing a pistol from his belt,

presented it within two feet of the Defterdar’s forehead, who observed

with horror another pistol and a dagger suspended from the same

formidable belt. “Excellent Defterdar,” he continued, “I do not wish to

expose you to any unnecessary alarm or danger, but it is necessary for

your safety that you give up to me the money in question. I am not

Latif-Aga, but Hassan, the Child of the Pyramid, of whom you have

perhaps heard, and who, as you may know, am not to be trifled with.”

At the sound of that dreaded name, and at the sight of the pistol still

pointed at his face, the unfortunate Defterdar grew speechless with

affright; a cold perspiration broke out upon his forehead, and his

tongue clove to his palate.

“For the love of Allah,” he gasped, “do not murder me!”

“I have no intention of hurting you,” said Hassan, “if you only do as I

bid you without delay; but I warn you that if you utter a sound to

compromise my safety you are a dead man. My pipe-bearer, at your outer

door, and all my attendants below, are armed as I am, and we are strong

enough, if it be requisite, to destroy you and all your household. But

though I am not ‘Latif’ by name, I desire to be so in my conduct;[104]

therefore if you are quiet and reasonable you have nothing to fear. You

will please now to call whichever of your confidential servants has the

care of this money, and tell him to bring it here and deliver it to me,

as I am charged to convey it to the commanding officer at the camp. If

in giving him this order you endeavour to betray me by word or sign, you

die where you sit, and your servant will be killed by my pipe-bearer

without.”

The unhappy Defterdar, after giving vent to sundry suppressed groans, in

which “Allah!” “Oh my misfortune!” “Mercy and destiny,” were feebly

uttered, and seeing no hope of saving his life excepting in implicit

obedience to the orders of his formidable guest, clapped his hands, and

on the entrance of his servant desired him forthwith to bring the money

which Latif-Aga was charged by the Viceroy to convey to the camp.

The servant noticed the evident tremor and perturbation under which his

master spoke, but like a true Oriental he attributed it to regret at

losing so fair an opportunity of appropriating a certain portion of the

money to his own advantage by cheating the soldiers in its distribution,

and he soon reappeared, bearing with him three or four bags of gold, and

one of larger dimensions containing Austrian dollars.

“Is the whole sum here?” said Hassan in a stern voice. “Bring me the

letter that accompanied the money, and then count it before me, that I

may see whether the amounts tally.”

His orders having been obeyed, the servant counted the money before him,

which (wonderful to relate of Egypt) agreed precisely with the letter of

advice.

“You are a faithful servant,” said Hassan, “and although I cannot touch

this money which belongs to others, here is a bakshish for yourself.” So

saying, he threw him two or three pieces of gold from his own purse,

adding, “Send hither my pipe-bearer and _mirakhor_ [chief groom], that

they may take charge of this money; and bring me a _dooàyeh_ [oriental

case containing pens and ink] and some paper, that I may give your

master a receipt in due form.”

Abou-Hamedi and Abd-hoo having been summoned and taken charge of their

trust with a gravity and deportment suited to their assumed characters,

our hero wrote the receipt in a bold hand, and in the following terms:—

“I, Hassan, Child of the Pyramid, hereby acknowledge that I have

received from Moktar Effendi the sum of one hundred and twenty purses

[£600] belonging to the Egyptian Government, and that it is my intention

to repay the same when it suits my convenience. I further add that the

said Moktar Effendi only delivered me this money when under fear of his

life, and when he had no means of resisting the force which I had at

hand: he should therefore be held exempt from blame by his humane and

just lord, Mohammed Ali.”

Having delivered this receipt to the still bewildered Effendi, Hassan

said to him, “My good friend, now that our business is terminated, we

will have one more pipe of fellowship before we part; but remember that

my eye is upon you.”

The pipe having been duly smoked and the attendants dismissed, Hassan

addressed his terrified host—

“Effendi, the most disagreeable part of my duty remains to be performed,

as I would fain have parted from you with politeness and friendship; but

as your duty would require that you should alarm all the village as soon

as my foot is in the stirrup, it is necessary for my safety and for

yours that I should secure your quietude: your servants will soon come

to release you, but for a while it is requisite that you should be

bound.” So saying, he produced a cord, which he had brought for the

purpose, and having bound his terror-stricken host hand and foot, and

stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth to prevent his calling out, he

left the room, and leisurely descending the stairs, mounted his horse,

giving pieces of silver to the servants at the door with a liberality

worthy of a Bey or Pasha.

He and his party proceeded slowly on the road towards the soldiers’

encampment until they were out of sight of the village, when they

suddenly turned off towards the desert, and after an hour’s gallop

rejoined the remainder of the band. On the following morning at daylight

they were eighty miles distant from the scene of this feat.

It is needless to portray the astonishment of Moktar Effendi’s servants

when they found their master bound and gagged in a corner of his room,

grunting and sputtering in his vain endeavours to call for help. When

they released his tongue and his limbs, his first act was to ask in a

trembling voice, “Is he gone?”

“Who?” they replied; “his Excellency the Bey, your visitor?—yes, he is

gone.”

“The Bey!” muttered Moktar Effendi, whose courage was now partially

restored. “Know ye not, sons of dogs and asses that ye are, that the

scoundrel was no Bey, but Hassan Ebn-el-Heràm, the outlaw chief, who has

plundered me and laughed at my beard. Allah! Allah! what dust has fallen

on my head—what dirt have I eaten! There lies his cursed receipt for the

money. How can I send it to Mohammed Ali? he will defile the graves of

my forefathers. Alas! alas! there is no power nor trust save in Allah.”

Such were the terms in which the unhappy Defterdar bewailed his fate,

and prepared to enclose to the Viceroy a full report of his misfortune,

together with the receipt left by the audacious outlaw. Mohammed Ali, in

one of those moods of clemency and generosity which were not unfrequent

with him, forgave the poor Defterdar, and replaced the plundered money

from his own purse, saying, “Hassan shall one day fulfil his promise of

repayment.”

* * * * *

The cool breezes of November had returned, and the Thorpe party were

again at Cairo, on their way to Thebes, where they proposed to pass the

winter. During the few days that they spent in the capital before

prosecuting their voyage, they visited the various objects of interest

which they had not found time to see during their former stay. One

scene, however, which they witnessed was so illustrative of the

superstition of the “Cairians,” or inhabitants of Cairo, that it is not

unworthy of notice.

Returning one day from an excursion to the Mokattan hills, they saw an

immense crowd of persons, of all ages and conditions, on horses, mules,

donkeys, and on foot, flocking to a spot called Sabaâ Benât (the seven

daughters), on the edge of the desert. Piercing through the outskirts of

this mixed assemblage, they were surprised to see beys, effendis,

merchants, priests, and beggars all divested of their outer garments and

rolling themselves with frantic energy and gesticulation in the sand.

On inquiring through Demetri what was the meaning of this strange

ceremonial, they learnt that it was a miracle wrought through the

instrumentality of a Moghrebi saint (such as in Algeria are termed

Marabouts), who had been warned in a religious trance that the sand in

this spot possessed a healing virtue, and that all who rolled themselves

therein should be immediately cured of any malady.

News of this miracle had spread through the city, and for several days

all who were, or imagined themselves, under the influence of any disease

hastened to avail themselves of the holy panacea.

In some instances the pious fraud worked out its own verification. One

fat bey, whose only ailment was plethora, brought on by gluttony,

actually rolled himself so energetically and effectually that he

perspired and vomited under the unwonted exertion. He returned home so

much relieved that he spread the fame of the miraculous spot throughout

all the members of the divan, and thus the superstition of the fanatic

Arabs was communicated to the grave and influential portion of the

Turkish community.

Mr Thorpe and his party made their way through this motley crowd with no

little difficulty, and they found the whole road from the sacred spot to

the city dusty and thronged as that from London to Epsom on a Derby

day.[105]

“How can they believe,” said Mr Thorpe to Demetri, “that by rolling in

that sand they can cure all diseases? Have the saints and dervishes so

much power over the people’s belief?”

“Saints and dervishes,” said Demetri, “can make them believe that the

Nile comes from the moon, or that the Pyramids were built of cheeses

made from the milk of Pharaoh’s cows. But that is nothing; priests can

do as much in my country. If you want to see what the Cairians can

swallow, you should go to that dome, under which you will find a jackass

daily fed on the best of provender at the public expense, and almost

worshipped by the people.”

As he spoke he pointed to a cupola erected over the tomb of a saint or

sheik, in the interior of which a donkey was contentedly chewing his

straw and beans, totally unconscious of the religious honours paid to

him.

“How came the donkey to obtain this great measure of respect?” inquired

Mr Thorpe.

“He belonged,” replied Demetri, “to a builder who was engaged in

repairing some tombs in the neighbourhood: this donkey had been one of a

score employed in carrying bricks and mortar. It would seem that he had

contrived to shake off his load, and had gone for shelter into that

half-ruined sheik’s tomb: meanwhile his owner, with the other donkeys,

had been suddenly called off to do some building-work at a distance for

the Viceroy.

“That night it appears that a _fikih_ [priest] of some celebrity in

the town had a dream, warning him that if he wished his prayers to be

heard he must go to the sheik’s tomb in question and pay honour to

whomsoever he might find under its roof. Hastening thither in the

morning, he found it tenanted by a donkey, to which, in order to obey

the warning he had received, he made an offering of some beans and

barley. Having communicated his dream to his religious brethren, it

was soon spread all over the town. Pious Mussulmans flocked thither to

pray for their sick relatives, and the long-eared recluse tasted of

the sweets of idleness, plenty, and all the other ingredients in the

cup of donkey-happiness.”[106]

“Why, Demetri,” said Mr Thorpe, laughing, “you have finished your tale

in a style worthy of the ‘Arabian Nights.’”

“It is no wonder,” replied the Greek; “I hear so many of those

story-narrators at the Arab cafés in the town that I borrow their style

almost without knowing it.”

“Mohammed Ali well knows,” continued the Greek, “how to take advantage

of this popular reverence for the tombs of sheiks. A short time ago one

stood close to a garden of his, and the visitors who flocked to it

disturbing his privacy, he determined to remove it in a manner that

should offer no offence to the reputation of the sheik or the fanaticism

of the people.

“Collecting in secret a large body of labourers from one of his distant

villages, he caused them in the course of a single night to destroy the

tomb and to rebuild it at a spot about two miles distant, in the same

form and of the same materials, after which they were sent back to their

own village as secretly as they had been summoned.

“On the following day all Cairo was full of the new

miracle—Sheik-el-Ghazi had transported his own tomb two miles in the

course of the night. Thousands flocked to the miraculous shrine, which

is to this day an object of the deepest reverence in the

neighbourhood.”[107]

The next day Mr Thorpe and his party went to pay a visit to Delì Pasha

previous to their departure for Upper Egypt. Emily and her mother were

conducted to the harem, where, after a brief and uninteresting visit to

the senior Khanum, they went to the apartment occupied by Amina.

Both were struck by the change which a year had wrought in her

appearance. She was not less lovely than before, but her bright and

mirthful glance had given place to a look of saddened tenderness and a

general expression of melancholy.

Neither did it escape Amina’s observation that Emily looked more pale

than on her former visit; and when her two guests were seated, one on

each side of her, with the wife of one of the Italian doctors, who

officiated as interpreter, she began to inquire after Emily’s health,

and how and where she had passed the summer.

These inquiries having been replied to, and the customary compliments

exchanged while they sipped their coffee from lilliputian cups enclosed

in _finjâns_ of gold filigree studded with diamonds, the conversation

assumed a more general turn; for Amina soon found that neither of her

guests could bear the pipe, although the tobacco was of the mildest

fragrance and the jewelled amber mouthpieces were such as might tempt

the lips of a smoke-abominating admiral.