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Mohammed Ali and His House

by L. Mühlbach · English · Gutenberg #3320 · 958,004 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Mohammed Ali and His House

Author: L. Mühlbach

Translator: Mrs. Chapman Coleman


        
Release date: July 1, 2002 [eBook #3320]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

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MOHAMMED ALI AND HIS HOUSE

An Historical Romance

by L. MUHLBACH




TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY CHAPMAN COLEMAN




CONTENTS


BOOK I     YEARS OF YOUTH.

CHAPTER
   I.  The Sea
  II.  Mother and Son
 III.  Boyish Dreams
  IV.  Premonition of Death
   V.  The Story-teller
  VI.  The Mamelukes
 VII.  Dreams of the Future
VIII.  The Friends
  IX.  A Soul in the Agonies of Death
   X.  Cousrouf Pacha
  XI.  The Revolt



BOOK II     PARADISE AND HELL.

CHAPTER
   I.  The Flower of Praousta
  II.  Masa
 III.  The First Day of Creation
  IV.  Masa's Jewelry
   V.  The Deliverance
  VI.  The Flight
 VII.  The Messenger
VIII.  Vanished
  IX.  Where is she?
   X.  The Departure
  XI.  The Triple Oath
 XII.  The Paradise under the Earth



BOOK III     THE MAMELUKES.

CHAPTER
   I.  Revenge
  II.  All Things pass away
 III.  The Bim Bashi
  IV.  The Embarkation
   V.  The Camp at Aboukir
  VI.  The Massacre
 VII.  Restitution
VIII.  The Viceroy of Egypt
  IX.  Sitta Nefysseh
   X.  L'Elfi Bey
  XI.  The Council of War
 XII.  The Abduction



BOOK IV     THE VICEROY.

CHAPTER
   I.  Butheita
  II.  In the Desert
 III.  The Agreement
  IV.  The Revolt
   V.  A Strong Heart
  VI.  Persecution
 VII.  Money! Pay!
VIII.  The Insurrection
  IX.  Vengeance at Last
   X.  The Return to Cairo
  XI.  Mohammed Ali and Bardissi
 XII.  Against the Mamelukes
XIII.  Love unto Death
 XIV.  Courschid Pacha
  XV.  The Tent
 XVI.  Retribution
XVII.  Conclusion




BOOK I

YEARS OF YOUTH


CHAPTER 1

THE SEA.


Beautiful is the sea when it lies at rest in its sublimity, its
murmuring waves gently rippling upon the beach, the sky above
reflected with a soft light upon its dark bosom.

Beautiful is the sea when it bears upon its surface the stately
ships, as though they were rose-leaves caressingly tossed by one
wave to another. Beautiful is the sea when the light barks with
their red sails are borne slowly onward by the gentle breeze, the
careless fishermen casting nets from the decks of their frail craft
into the deep, to draw thence, for the nourishment or pleasure of
man, its silent inhabitants. Beautiful it is when in the darkness of
the night, relieved only by the light of the stars, and the moon
just rising above the horizon, the pirates venture forth in their
boats from their lairs on the coast, and glide stealthily along
within the shadow of the overhanging cliffs, awaiting an opportunity
to rob the fishermen of their harvest; or, united in larger numbers,
to suddenly surround the stately merchantman, clamber like cats up
its sides, murder the sleeping, unsuspecting crew, and put
themselves in possession of the vessel.

The sea has witnessed all this for centuries, has silently buried
such secrets in its depths; and yet, after such nights of blood and
terror, the sun has again risen in splendor over its bosom, ever
presenting the same sublime spectacle.

Beautiful is the sea when it lies at rest in the azure light of the
skies-a very heaven on earth. But still more beautiful, more
glorious, is it when it surges in its mighty wrath-a wrath compared
with which the thunder of the heavens is but as the whispering of
love, the raging of a storm upon the land, a mere murmur. An
immeasurable monster, the sea rushes with its mighty waves upon the
rock-bound coast, sends clouds of spray high into the air, telling
in tones of thunder of the majesty and strength of the ocean that
refuses to be fettered or conciliated.

You may cultivate the arts and sciences on the land, you may bring
the earth into subjection, and make it yield up its treasures; the
sea has bounded in freedom since the beginning, and it will not be
conquered, will not be tamed. The mind of man has learned to command
all things on the land, knows the secrets of the depths of the
earth, and uses them; but man is weak and powerless when he dares to
command, or ventures to combat, the ocean. At its pleasure it
carries ships, barks, and boats; but at its pleasure it also
destroys and grinds them to dust, and you can only fold your hands
and let it act its will.

Today it is surging fiercely; its waves are black, and their white
heads curl over upon the rock Bucephalus, that stretches far out
into the bay of Contessa, pictured against the blue sky in the form
of a gigantic black steed. Huddled together, at the foot of this
rock, and leaning against its surface, is a group of men and boys.
They are eagerly gazing out upon the water, and are perhaps speaking
to each other; but no one hears what another says, for the waves are
roaring, and the storm howling in the rocky caves, and the waves and
storm, with their mighty chorus, drown the little human voices. The
pale faces of the boys are expressive of terror and anxiety, the
knit brows of the men indicate that they are expecting a disaster,
and the trembling lips of the old men forebode that the next hour
may bring with it some horrible event.

They stand upon the beach, waiting anxiously; but the monster--the
sea--regards them not, and hurls one black wave after the other in
upon the cliff behind which they stand, often drenching them with
spray.

But these people pay no attention to this, hardly notice it; their
whole soul is in their eyes, which are gazing fixedly out upon the
waters. Thus they stand, these poor, weak human beings, in the
presence of the grand, majestic ocean, conscious their impotence,
and waiting till the monster shall graciously allow his anger to
abate. For a moment the storm holds its breath; a strange, solemn
stillness follows upon the roaring of the elements, and affords
these people an opportunity to converse, and impart their terror and
anxiety to each other.

"He will not return," said one of them, with a shake of the head and
a sad look.

"He is lost!" sighed another.

"And you boys are to blame for it!" cries a third, turning to the
group who stood near the men, closely wrapped in their brown cloaks,
the hoods pulled down over their eyes.

"Why did you encourage him to undertake so daring a feat?" cried a
fourth, pointing threateningly toward the boys.

"It is not our fault, Sheik Emir," said one of them, defiantly; "he
would do so."

"Mohammed always was proud and haughty," exclaimed another. "We told
him that a storm was coming, and that we would go home. But he
wouldn't, sheik."

"That is to say," said the sheik, angrily--"that is to say, you have
been ridiculing the poor boy again?"

"He is always so proud, and thinks himself something better than the
rest of us," murmured the boy, "though he is something worse, and
may some day be a beggar if--"

The storm now began to rage more furiously; the waves towered
higher, and threw their spray far on to the shore and high upon the
rock, as though determined to make known its dread majesty to the
inhabitants of the city of Cavalla, which stands with its little
houses, narrow streets, and splendid mosque, on the plateau of the
rock of Bucephalus. On the summit of the rock a woman is kneeling,
her hands extended imploringly toward heaven; she has allowed the
white veil to fall from her face, and her agonized features are
exposed to view, regardless of the law that permits her to reveal
her countenance in the harem only. What are the laws to her? where
is the man to command her to veil her countenance? who says to her:
"You belong to me, and my heart glows with jealousy when others
behold you"?

No one is there who could thus address her; for she is a widow, and
calls nothing on earth her own, and loves nothing on earth but her
son, her Mohammed Ali.

She knows that he has gone out to sea in a frail skiff to cross over
to the island-rock Imbro. The boys have told her of the daring feat
which her son had undertaken with them. Filled with anxiety, they
had come up to the widow of Ibrahim to announce that her son had
refused to return with them after they had started in their fisher-
boats for the island of Imbro. "I have begun it and I'll carry it
out," the proud boy had replied to them. "You have ridiculed me, and
think yourselves better oarsmen than I, and now you shall see that I
alone shall cross over to Imbro, while you cowardly return when the
storm begins to rage."

This was his reply, and in their anxiety they had repeated it to his
mother Khadra, telling her, at the same time, that they were
innocent of her son's misdeed, and had begged him in his mother's
name to return with them. There she kneels on the brow of the rock,
gazing out upon the water, imploring Allah to restore her son, and
conjuring the raging sea to bear back her child to the shore.

The mother's entreaties are ardent, and strong is her prayer to
Allah and to Nature.

The ghins, the evil spirits themselves, hold their breath and flap
their black wings more gently when they rustle past the spot where a
mother weeps and prays for her son!

But a tear drops from the eyes of the good spirits when they meet
such a mother, and this tear is potent to save her child. Perhaps at
this moment an agathodaemon has flown by, has seen the agonized
mother, and has let fall a tear upon the waters, for at this moment
they become more tranquil. Perhaps the ghins have suddenly been
swept away by the whirlwind, Zeboah, for the storm is now hushed.

The storm is stilled, though from time to time its mighty breath is
again heard; and then it is again mute, and the waves roll in upon
the shore less furiously. The sky, too, begins to grow clear. The
sun looks out from between the clouds, and throws a long golden
streak of light across the waves, as if to conciliate with its smile
the foaming sea, and smooth its furrowed brow.

Now, a single, mighty cry resounds from above, from the place where
the mother is kneeling. It seems to find its echo here below on the
shore where the men and boys are standing. It is a cry of joy, of
ecstasy. And all hands are raised and pointed across the water to
the spot where the island-rock, Imbro, must lie. It is not visible;
the waves have surged over it, as they always do when the storm
rages, but they know that it must lie there. And there--a black
spot! It dances on the waves, and is lifted above the white spray.
The sun throws its rays far out over the waters, and over the black
spot. Again a shout and a cry resound on the shore and above on the
plateau.

Yes, it is the boat, dancing like a leaf up through the foam. The
mother and the men are waiting on the shore in breathless suspense,
as it approaches nearer and nearer. Yes, it is the boat in which
Mohammed Ali went out to sea.

Yes, it is he; he is returning!

The men and boys are now rejoicing, and the poor woman has fainted
away. While the mother's heart was in doubt, it throbbed violently
in her breast; now that she knows her child is returning, it stands
still with joy and delight.

The women, who had vainly endeavored to console her, have now come
to recall the mother to consciousness, and to cheer her with joyous
words.

"Your son returns! Allah has protected him! The ghins had no power
over him, his agathodaemon watched over him! Allah be praised, Allah
is great!"

The boat comes on dancing over the water. The boy stands alone, no
one to assist him in wielding his oar. He holds it firmly grasped in
his hands, using it lustily, and steering in defiance of the waves
toward the shore. And now the men hasten forward to his assistance.
They throw long ropes to him, and hail their success with a shout of
joy, when one of them happily falls into the boy's boat. The latter
grasps the end thrown to him, and holds it firmly. The men draw the
rope and thus force the boat to the shore, and, as it touches the
rock, ten arms grasp it and hold it securely. With a single bound
the boy leaps ashore.

His face is perfectly calm; his eyes, lustrous as stars, show no
traces of terror; they are fixed on the men with a kindly glance,
but they darken as he turns to the boys.

"You see, my boys," said he, with a calm and at the same time
threatening expression, "I have won my wager! Here is the proof that
I was over there. The knife that Ibrahim lost there yesterday, I
bring back to him. Here it is!"

He takes the knife out of his jacket, thoroughly drenched with
water, and throws it down before the boys. "I have won my wager! You
men are witnesses of my triumph! Each boy is bound to pay me tribute
from to-day. Each one must furnish me, twice a week, with the best
peaches and dates from his garden, and when we go out to the chase
they must obey me, and acknowledge me to be their captain."

What triumph shone in his eyes, what an expression of energy in the
bearing of a boy scarcely ten years old!

"That was it!" exclaimed Toussoun Aga, in a reproachful tone. "For
this reason my brother's son risked his life, and caused his mother
and all of us so much anxiety.--Allah forgive you! You are a wild,
defiant boy."

"No, uncle," cried the boy; "no, I am not wild and defiant. They
ridiculed me, and said I was not as good as they, could do nothing,
didn't even know how to steer a boat. And then we laid a wager, and
I won my wager; and they shall pay the tribute, and acknowledge me
to be their captain. I call all you men to witness that I am the
captain of the boys of Cavalla."

The men looked at each other, amused and astonished at the same
time. He speaks like a child, and yet haughtily, like a monarch. His
words are childish, and yet so full of energy. And many of them
thought they could read in the book of the future that a great
destiny awaited the poor boy Mohammed Ali. "He is poor, to be sure,
and will have much hard fighting to do with the storms of life. May
the same success he has met with against the storms of the sea to-
day also attend him hereafter against the storms of life!"

Toussoun Aga stretches out his hand to take that of his nephew
Mohammed, to lead him to the rock above, to his mother, but the boy
quickly rejects the proffered assistance.

"I can ascend the rock to my mother alone; I am not weak and
terrified, uncle. Go on, I will follow."

And, as he says this, he crosses his hands behind his back. The rest
now cry out:

"Look at his hands! Look, they are bleeding!"

Toussoun now takes the boy's hands in his own, against his will, and
opens them. They are covered with blood, that oozes out of the raw
flesh.

"It is nothing," said the boy; "nothing at all. I had to hold fast
to the oar, the skin stuck to it, and that made my hands bleed."

The men gaze on him admiringly, and whisper to each other: "He is a
hero, if he is only ten years old." And they respectfully step back,
and allow the boy to pass on up the rocky path that leads to
Cavalla.




CHAPTER II

MOTHER AND S0N.


"Here he is again, Sitta Khadra. I bring your son," said Toussoun
Aga, as he entered, with the boy, the hut into which some kind-
hearted women had brought Mohammed's mother. "Scold the naughty
youth well, and tell him what anxiety he has caused us all."

Sitta Khadra, however, did not scold him, but only extended her open
arms, drew her son to her bosom with a joyous cry, and kissed him
tenderly. Toussoun gazed smilingly at the two, and then noiselessly
left the hut.

"It is best to leave them alone, that Allah only may hear what the
mother says to her son," he murmured, as he returned to his own hut,
where he industriously began to apply himself to making fishing-
nets, with which occupation he earned his livelihood.

Now that Mohammed was left alone with his mother, the boy who was
always so reserved and timid in the presence of others, knelt down
before her, and entreated her tenderly not to be angry with him for
having made her anxious.

"But you see, mother, it had to be done," said he, excitedly and
imploringly at the same time, "else they would have ridiculed me
again as they so often do."

"How can they ridicule you, my beloved son? " murmured Khadra,
regarding him tenderly; "are you not handsomer and stronger than all
of these pale, weak boys? Can you not steer a boat and use a gun
better than they? Are you not a man among these boys?"

"Not yet, Mother Khadra; but I shall become one," said he, rising
from his knees and lifting his head proudly. "Yes, I will become a
man among these boys, and they shall all be my subjects. We had laid
a wager, and that wager had to be won; and won for you, Mother
Khadra," he added with a glad smile.

"For me?" she asked, wonderingly. "How can your victory over these
boys be of use to me, except that I rejoice in your greater
strength?"

"There is something else, mother," he replied, joyously. "They must
pay a tribute, and the finest dates and peaches, and the most
beautiful flowers in their gardens, are mine, two days in the week,
and for three months--this was the wager. Now you have fruits and
flowers. Do you remember how you complained, while we were sitting
on the rock looking at the sea, that we had only this poor little
hut, and no garden and no field? I said to myself, 'I'll get them
for her.' And, mother, you shall have all the rest besides. Now you
have fruits and flowers, but, if Allah is gracious, you shall soon
have your own garden and your own house, handsomer than all the
houses of Cavalla. I will build my mother a palace; she shall have
slaves and servants; all shall bow down before her as before their
mistress; none shall rule over her but Allah and the prophet."

The mother gazed in wonder at her son's excited countenance; he
seemed to her at this moment not a child, but a man, a hero.

"Yes," she murmured to herself," he will make what he says come
true: all that the dream announced and the prophetess foretold."

"What is that you are saying, mother?" asked he. "What was that
dream, what did the prophetess foretell?"

She gently shook her head. "It will not be well to tell you, my son.
Your heart is bold and passionate. And yet," she continued, after a
moment, "it may be well that you should know it; for to the daring
belongs the world, and Allah blesses those who have a passionate and
earnest heart. Sit down at my side, my son, and you shall know all."

"Speak, mother, speak--I am listening. How was the dream?"

"It was more than twelve years ago," said the mother, thoughtfully.
"At that time I was a young married woman, and was beautiful--so the
people said--for I was so poor that I could not even buy myself a
veil, and Allah and the prophets forgave me for going uncovered
before men. Then it was that your father, the Boulouk Baschi of the
police, saw me; his eye rested lovingly on the poor girl, and he did
me the honor to make me his wife, and he covered my face with a
veil, that no other man might henceforth see me. It was a great
honor for me that Boulouk Baschi considered me worthy to be his
wife, even his only wife. For he made no use of the privilege
accorded by the prophet and our religion, which allows a man to
conduct several women to his harem. He said the one woman of his
heart should be the one woman of his house. It was a happy year, my
son this first year of our married life. We were not rich, we had
nothing but the salary which your father received from the
tschorbadji, but it was sufficient; when we are happy we do not need
much. You must know, my son, that my heart is not fixed on splendor
and show; it was not my own thoughts that conjured up these proud
dreams. We lived, as I have said, in quiet bliss, hoping that our
happiness might soon be increased by the birth of a child, by you,
my son. One circumstance only dimmed our happiness: this was your
father's service. A bad service, my son! Bands of robbers infested
our peninsula, and it was a dangerous calling to lie in wait for
them, and follow them up into the mountains. I always trembled when
your father went out with his men in pursuit of robbers, and I had
good cause to tremble. Allah had implanted in my soul a foreboding
of coming evil. One day, while engaged in preparing our simple
repast, I heard heavy footsteps, and a subdued murmur of voices
approaching. I knew that some misfortune was impending, and there
was. Your father was brought in a bleeding corpse! He had followed
the robbers far up into the mountains alone, his men refusing to
accompany him. The robbers had surrounded and slain him, disfiguring
his dear face so that I could scarcely recognize it."

"What was done with the murderers?" asked Mohammed, fiercely. "Were
they punished, executed?"

She shook her head. "There was no one there to witness the deed,
and, when your father's successor was appointed, they had probably
long since crossed the sea. Their names were not even known, and
your father's blood is unavenged to this day."

"Mother!" exclaimed the boy, fiercely, "I will avenge my father! I
swear it!"

"Poor boy! You avenge him? You do not even know who his murderers
were," said she, gently.

"I will have vengeance on the whole world!" exclaimed the boy. "All
my enemies shall suffer for his death! What did you do, mother, when
you beheld my father's body? You laid your hand on his eyes, and
swore to avenge him, did you not?"

"No, my son. I sank down by your father's body, kissed his hand, and
took leave of him whom alone I had loved. But yet, I did register
one oath! I swore that henceforth I would love nothing but the child
I bore under my heart--his child. I also swore that the veil with
which he had covered my face should never be lifted by another man.
Many a one longed to take Ibrahim Aga's widow to wife, for,
talkative as love and happiness always are, he had told them of his
love and his happiness, and they thought that they, too, might
obtain this through me. But I rejected them, though I was poor and
possessed nothing but this hut to shelter myself and my child, as
yet unborn. For the sake of this child, I rallied my energies and
dried my eyes. A mother who has not yet given birth should not weep;
her tears would fall on the child and make its heart sick and its
eyes dim, and I wished my child to see the world with his father's
eyes, to begin life with his father's heart. Therefore I implored
Allah to give strength and joyousness to the life that was to be
devoted to my child. One night I had a strange, wondrous, and
beautiful dream. On a sparkling throne I saw a man in glittering
armor, his sword high uplifted, his eyes flaming, his countenance
lustrous with beauty. I knew this man, although I had never seen
him. His countenance was that of my Ibrahim, and yet it was another-
it was his son! In my dream I was distinctly conscious that it was
my son I beheld before me. He looked not at me, but out upon the
world with an angry eye. At his feet thousands lay extended upon the
ground in deep reverence. Far behind him I saw a strange landscape,
such as I had never before beheld. On a wide, yellow waste of sand,
stood towering proud and mighty structures of wondrous form, their
summits glittering in the sunshine. And, strange to say, afar off,
on a magnificent palace, I saw the same man I had before beheld, his
sword again uplifted, and above his head shone the crescent with the
three stars. All at once the man became transformed into a child
that shone like an angel, and this angel stretched out its arms and
flew toward me. In my dream I extended my arms toward this vision,
and cried, 'My son-my son!' This cry awakened me. On the following
day you were born. When I saw and greeted you with Allah's blessing,
I was startled to find the child I held in my arms the same as the
angel that had flown to me in my dream! Oftentimes since I have
thought of this dream, and endeavored to interpret it, for the
agathodaemon that watches over men, and protects them from the ghins
and their evil pinions, sometimes sends dreams to the unhappy to
announce to them the future. I thought my agathodaemon had sent me
this dream, "One day some gypsies came to Cavalla on a ship that
landed here to procure provisions. They remained here several days,
and made a business of fortune-telling. I went to an old woman, said
to be the greatest prophetess, held out my hand, and demanded that
she should announce the future of myself and my son. The old woman
gazed at me with a strange look, and said: --You wish your dream
interpreted?'

"This startled me, for I had rarely spoken of my dream, and the old
woman could not have heard of it. She had been in Cavalla but two
days, and who should have told her of the poor, obscure woman, Sitta
Khadra? But this question startled me to the very soul, and it
seemed to me that this woman must tell me the truth. I motioned to
her to tell me my dream. She related the entire dream with every
circumstance, and interpreted it."

"How did she interpret it?" asked Mohammed, in breathless suspense.

"She said to me: 'Your son will one day become a prince and a hero;
he will see a whole nation bowed down at his feet; he will wield the
sword over this people, and bring them under his yoke. Your son
shall be a ruler; palaces shall be his, and among the mighty he
shall be the mightiest. Destiny announced this to you through the
man transformed into the angel that flew to you, and who is your
son. All hail, Khadra, for you shall be the mother of the mightiest,
of the master of the earth!'"

"Is this true? Am I to be a prince, a mighty ruler?" asked Mohammed,
in ecstasy. "I am to behold nations at my feet? Repeat it again,
what did she say?"

"Yes, she said this: --A prince shall he become, nations shall he
behold at his feet, and the whole world shall talk of and praise
him.'"

"I swear to you, mother, that she shall have told the truth! I swear
to you, by the spirit of my father, by Allah and by the prophets, I
will make the old woman's prophecy the truth! I shall be a prince, a
great ruler, and whole nations shall bow down in the dust before me.
I thank you, mother, for having foretold my future, and I only
implore that Allah may graciously permit my mother to live to see
the fulfilment of the prophecy. Now I know what I have to do, and,
when the boys ask me again what is to become of poor Mohammed, I
shall tell them: --I will make of him a prince, a hero, a king.'
Yes, I will speak thus to them, and thus it shall be! And with them
I shall begin! These cowardly boys shall be my subjects, and woe to
them if they do not pay the tribute! O mother, beautiful days are in
store for you!"

"My dear, foolish boy," said the mother, regarding him tenderly,
"you dream of a brilliant future, but it is impossible to realize
this dream. We are poor, and Fortune seldom resides with the poor."

"I will make us rich!" exclaimed the boy; "yes, I will make us rich,
though as yet I know not how I am to do it. But do you know who
shall assist me in doing so?"

"I think I do," replied the mother, smiling, "you will ask your good
friend Mr. Lion?"

Mohammed nodded assent. "Rightly guessed, mother! To him I shall go
and ask him how to begin to become a rich man. Let me do so at once,
my heart is burning to ask this question."

He seized his red cap, pulled it over his brown hair, took leave of
his mother, hurried into the street, and out of the poverty-stricken
little suburb, toward the main thoroughfare, where the wealthy
lived. He walked on, reflecting profoundly over what his mother had
related, and without noticing the boys who were coming toward him.
When they perceived him, they stepped aside as if ashamed to meet
the boy who had excelled and conquered them, slipped into the next
house, closed the door which extended only half-way up the doorway
behind them, and looked out over it.

"Only look at him!" they cried, derisively. "He is good for nothing.
He can do nothing. What is he to become but a beggar? Who will pity
him when his uncle is dead, and his mother sick and bedridden? Then
he will have to serve us, and pay us tribute."

They continued to laugh at him, but he walked on quietly. Their
malicious words had not escaped him, but he took no notice of them.
Proudly and composedly he walked on, murmuring to himself in a low
voice: "They shall pay for this some day! They too are my enemies,
on whom I intend to be avenged, fearfully avenged!"

These thoughts were still expressed in his features as he entered
the great store of the merchant Lion. Hastily he threaded his way
down the narrow path that lay between the bales and barrels, toward
the light that shone at the end. There stood the merchant's office.
Now he hears a kindly voice welcoming him.

"Behold the hero of Imbro, the daring conqueror of the sea! Welcome
my hero, welcome!"

He stood still, listening to these tones, a happy smile over-
spreading his countenance. How beautiful it is to be thus welcomed!
To be sure, as yet it is only a friendly greeting, and half in
mockery, but this greeting shall one day resound from the throats of
whole nations, and not in mockery. Shall they hail him, "Welcome,
thou hero!" This he swears shall be, as he steps up to Mr. Lion, who
extends both hands to him over his counter, and regards him
tenderly.

"Here again, my Mohammed! They have been speaking of you all day,
and three men have already been here to tell of your heroic deed.
Let me see your hands. Yes, they are torn and bleeding. Yes, my boy,
I have rejoiced with you, and am proud with you for having put those
boys to shame."

"I thank you, sir," said he, earnestly; "yet it is not enough to
conquer boys; one must also conquer men and nations!"

Mr. Lion regarded him with wonder. "What is this you are saying?
What are you busying your brain with now?"

"With many things, sir; I desire you to help me provide for my
future."

"I am delighted, Mohammed," said the merchant, regarding him with a
friendly smile, "I am delighted to see you thoughtful of your
future. I have often scolded your mother about you; you are tall and
sensible for your age, are almost a young man, and it would become
you to be taking care of yourself. But both your mother and your
Uncle Toussoun are spoiling you in their anxiety to strew your
pathway with rose-leaves, and guard you from every hardship."

"They would," said the boy, shrugging his shoulders, "if I allowed
them, but I will not! I will bare my face to the storm, and walk on
thorns instead of rose-leaves, in order that my feet may become
hardened. Therefore, tell me, dear sir, what I am to do to provide
for my future."

"That is hard to tell," replied Lion, with a sigh. "For every thing
a certain something is necessary, which you, unfortunately, do not
possess."

"And what is this something? " asked the boy, hastily

"Money," replied the merchant. "It is not enough to pray to Allah,
and to receive into one's soul the precepts of the Koran; one must
also use one's hands industriously, and learn the precepts of
worldly wisdom, and the very first of these is, 'Have money, and you
can obtain all else.'"

"I will have money, that I may obtain all else!" exclaimed Mohammed;
"only tell me how to procure it."

"That is just where the difficulty lies, you foolish boy," said the
merchant, stroking his brown hair gently. "Those who rob and plunder
make it much easier for themselves in the world, and I have known
many a one to begin his career as a robber who, subsequently, ruled
over men as a grand pacha. Yet I am confident that it is not in this
manner you wish to acquire riches, but as an honest man."

"Yes, as an honest man! I desire to gain honor, magnificence, and
wealth, by the power of my will and my intellect."

"Honor, magnificence, and wealth?" repeated Mr. Lion. "These are
grand words, my boy! It will be very difficult to accomplish so
much, and I can render you no assistance in doing so, yet I will
take you into my business and try to make a merchant of you, if you
wish it."

"Merchant!" repeated the boy, thoughtfully. "I have nothing that I
could sell."

"Yet you can sell yourself. Do not look at me so angrily! I do not
mean that you should sell yourself as a slave, but do business with
your head, your work, and your good-will. Help me to wait on my
customers, to sell goods, and to praise them with pleasing manners,
and I will furnish you with food and clothing, and pay you monthly
wages besides, which you can give to your mother."

"I should have to stand behind the counter, and play the amiable to
people, as I have seen you do?"

"Yes, my son, that you would have to do."

"I should have to listen quietly to the gossips, spread out before
them the carpets, turbans, and Persian shawls; and, as I have seen
you do, cover the spots with my hands and praise the goods, and then
hear them scold, and bargain, and cheapen?"

"Really, you will make a good merchant; I see you have learned a
great deal already."

"I should, when the women stroll in and seat themselves at the
counter, have to wait on them humbly with coffee, and beg them to do
us the honor? Should have to hear them talk about their domestic
affairs, their cats, and their dogs, and appear to be delighted with
the sweetness of their voices, and the lustre of their eyes?"

"By your prophet, you are a finished merchant, and will make a
splendid salesman!"

"No, I shall not!" cried the boy. "No, sir! I love you with my whole
soul, and have often observed and admired how you understand your
art, but, forgive me for saying so, I cannot become a merchant!
Propose something that I can do."

"Very well! I will propose something else; become a writer, learn
the art, understood by so few, of putting words spoken by others on
paper with signs. I should be well pleased, as I need a writer. The
one I have has grown old and lazy, and, though I can speak your
language, I cannot write it. Yes, learn to write, and then you will
be provided for permanently, for writers are rare, and--"

"I will not learn it!" said the boy, interrupting him; "I will have
nothing to do with the pen. I will write my name with the sword on
the faces of my enemies!"

"That would be a beautiful handwriting!' observed Mr. Lion,
laughing. "It will, however, be some time before you can do that,
and, in the mean while, I would advise you to go to old Scha-er
Mehsed, the story-teller. He knows wonderful tales, and the whole
history of the great Prophet Mohammed. You know, in the evenings,
crowds assemble around him, and it fairly rains pennies. But Scha-er
Mehsed has grown old, and hard to understand because he has lost his
teeth. Go and listen to him, then take your seat on the stone and
tell stories of the olden time yourself."

"No, Mr. Lion, that does not suit me either. I will first do great
deeds before I tell of them. Not until I have grown old shall the
men and women assemble around me; then they shall hear of my deeds.
But to tell of the deeds of others only, would give me no pleasure.
I see nothing is left me but to become a soldier. Yes, a soldier."

"I, too, believe that would be the best thing for you," said Mr.
Lion, with a kindly nod of the head. "But then you must wait until
you are larger and stronger, for they do not make soldiers of boys,
and you are still a boy. At ten years of age one is not yet a man,
my little hero. But at fifteen you will be a youth, and then you
will be accepted as a soldier. And I prophesy for you a great and
brilliant career as such. Until then, however, I promise to help
your mother to take care of you, and, if I can serve you in any way,
come to me, for you know I love you, and will gladly do what I can
for you."

"Until then I will be the general of the boys of Cavalla, and they
shall all bow down to me, and pay me tribute."




CHAPTER III

BOYISH DREAMS.


Since that day a great change had taken place in Mohammed Ali. He
was graver and more silent, and participated less in the games of
the boys. He no longer laughed and jested as he had formerly done,
but he was all the more busily occupied with his gun, inherited from
his father, exercising himself in shooting, and almost always
hitting his mark. He also strengthened his limbs by fencing with his
old uncle, who had formerly been a soldier, or by throwing himself
into the sea, to struggle with the waves and allow himself to be
buffeted about by them for hours. The boy prepared himself to become
a man, and he did so with his whole soul, and with the whole
strength of his will.

He often wandered in solitude among the rocks on the heights, or
lingered on the beach below; and when he would return to his mother,
on such occasions, she could see reflected in his countenance the
great thoughts that agitated her boy's soul. He seemed to her to
grow visibly taller each day; that the boy was transforming himself
into a man with wonderful rapidity. She knew that this boy would
become a hero; she had seen it in the expression of his eyes while
relating her dream, and she comprehended the longing which filled
his soul, for her soul was strong and aspiring like his, and
Mohammed had inherited his ambition and strong will from his mother
Khadra.

"He thinks as I should think were I a man," said Khadra to herself,
as she sat on the threshold of her door regarding her son. "Neither
should I be contented with our present miserable existence if I were
a man. I, too, should desire to go out and struggle with the world.
Alas! but I am only a poor widow, living a miserable, solitary life,
awaiting the day when death shall call me, and unite me in Paradise
with Ibrahim Aga, my master. But let the young eagle brood and think
until his wings are grown, and then let him fly into the world out
of this miserable, rocky nest. May Allah bless his purpose, and
Mohammed the prophet protect him! Allah il Allah!"

While the mother was praying, and looking out wistfully into the
twilight, Mohammed was sitting in his rocky cave down on the shore.

This was as yet his only possession, his palace! No one knew of this
cave, discovered by the boy while wandering on the shore. He had
crept into a narrow opening in the rock which he had observed among
the cliffs, that was hardly large enough to admit of the passage of
his slender body. He crept on his hands and knees, and noticed with
delight that this opening widened into a cave. He went on, deeper
and deeper into the darkness, when suddenly he saw a bright light
overhead, and discovered that he was in a wide cave, lighted from
above by a round opening as by a window.

Through this opening he could view the sea, and the sky above.

This cave was known to no one else, and Mohammed carefully preserved
the secret of its existence.

This cave was his palace! Here he could dream of the future; here,
in impenetrable solitude, he could dwell with his thoughts; from
here he could look up and implore counsel from the heavens above, or
look down at the foaming sea beneath, and refresh his soul with its
majesty.

By degrees he had made this cave habitable. Who knows but it may be
necessary to seek it as a refuge from pursuit and danger some day?
Who knows but that he may be compelled to seek safety here some day
from his enemies, or even from his friends?

Whatever he could spare from the little sums of money which his
mother occasionally gave him, or from the presents of Mr. Lion or
his old uncle, he devoted to the purchase of bedding, or some other
article of furniture of the kind used in the huts of the poor. And
then at night, when no one could see him, he would creep with these
things into his cave, his palace of the future. Sometimes, while
sitting there dreaming, the deep-blue sky looking down upon him, the
sun throwing a ray of golden light through the cave, strange visions
would appear to him. The cave would transform itself into a
glittering palace, and the wretched mat that lay on the ground
became a luxurious silken couch, on which he reclined, smoking his
tschibak, while slaves stood around in reverential attitudes, ready
to do his bidding. When seated on his rickety stool--a costly
possession--for it had been bought with the last remnant of his
money, it seemed to him that, clothed in purple, he had mounted his
throne, around which wondrous strains of melody resounded. It did
not occur to him that it was the murmur of the waves beating upon
the rock-bound shore without; to him they were the triumphant songs
of his future greeting him, the ruler.

"A ruler, a hero, a prince, he is to be," said the prophetess to his
mother, and he will do what he can to fulfil this prophecy.

It was with a great effort only that he could tear himself away from
such ecstatic dreams; quit his hidden paradise, and go out into the
world, into reality again.

One cannot live on dreams; one must eat, too. But it annoys him that
he is subjected to this wretched necessity of eating.

"If I should have nothing to eat; if I should become so poor and
miserable as to have no bread, must I then die be cause I am in the
habit of eating?" he would ask himself, in angry tones.

"I will learn to live without eating!" he cried, in a loud voice.

For days he would wander about in the forests and among the rocks,
at a distance from all human habitations, taking no food, in order
that he might accustom himself to live on little.

On one occasion he remained absent from his mother's hut two days
and nights, and Khadra awaited his return in deathly anxiety. Will
he never return; has she lost him, her only son, the hope of her
future, the blessing of her existence?

At last, on the third day, she sees him coming; pale and exhausted,
he totters toward her, and yet his bearing is defiant, and his eye
sparkles.

She hurries forward with extended arms to meet him. "Where have you
been, my beloved; where were you tarrying in the distance,
forgetting that a mother's heart was longing for you?"

He pressed his mother's hand to his lips, looking steadfastly into
her eyes. "I was with my future, Mother Khadra," said he in a low
voice. "I was with the days that are to come, the days when I shall
stand on the palace, a man, a hero, sword in hand, at my feet a
people looking up to me imploringly. You see, mother, your dream is
fulfilled, the hero who stands up there has again transformed
himself into your boy! He is here and greets you."

"But why is my boy pale and exhausted?" asked Sitta Khadra,
anxiously, as she clasped him in her arms.

"I don't know!" said he, wearily. "It seems to me that my feet
refuse to bear me longer, that something is drawing me upward. Let
us go to the hut, mother."

He grasped her arm hastily and led her away as though he were quite
strong, but Khadra observed that his lips trembled, and that his
face was pallid.

"He looks hungry," she murmured to herself. "Yes, I see he is
hungry! Buried in his thoughts, he has again forgotten to take
food."

She said no more, but walked hastily to the hut and led him in. "Son
of my heart, I have been awaiting you," said she, with an innocent
air. "I did not wish to partake of our simple supper until my son
had come home. Let us sit down and eat. Allah bless our meal!"

It does not escape her that his eye suddenly glitters as he looks at
the bread and dates brought yesterday by the boys as his tribute.

With a quick motion he stretches out his hand toward the fruit, but
suddenly withdraws it, as if ashamed of himself.

"It does not become children to seat themselves before their
parents, and eat before they have broken bread. Eat, mother; seat
yourself, and allow your son to wait on you."

That he might not feel hurt, she seated herself quickly and took
part of the fruit offered her. She handed him some, and now human
nature conquered the spirit, and he heartily ate of the fruit and
bread.

"Where were you, my boy? Light of my eyes, where were you?" asked
the mother.

"Up there among the rocks, and below on the shore," replied he,
smiling.

"Where did you find food there? I know that eagles, hawks, and
doves, find their food among the rocks, but for mankind there is no
food there."

"And I found none, Mother Khadra; I must learn to do with little, to
conquer hunger, and I fought with it for two days. See how I am
rewarded!--my food never tasted so deliciously before."

"Eat, my boy! Allah bless your food and drink! How fortunate that I
have something for your thirst, too! Uncle Toussoun Aga brought me
to-day a bottle of Cyprian wine, a present from Mr. Lion. You must
drink of it, my boy."

He shook his head. "No, Sitta Khadra, I will not drink of the wine
sent you by the noble merchant to restore your strength. Water from
the well, from the spring of life, is a better drink for me. For
you, the Cyprian wine, for me the spring-wine that bubbles from the
rock."

He took down the gourd cup from the wall, and went out and quenched
his thirst with long draughts at the spring, and then returned to
his mother. He was now restored to strength and vigor; the color
returned to his cheeks, and his knees no longer trembled.

"My eyes' delight, my Mohammed fresh and full of life again!" cried
Mother Khadra. "Light of my life, I am glad to see you yourself
again. But I beg you, my boy, not to make such cruel experiments on
yourself. It is wholesome to harden the body, but not to abuse it,
and you abuse your own handsome self when you torment yourself with
hunger and thirst unnecessarily."

"Not unnecessarily, Mother Khadra," he replied, shaking his head.
"He, only, who knows how to practise self-denial, can enjoy. At
first I couldn't understand this, now I do, and have experienced it
in myself. I have practised self-denial for two days, and now I have
enjoyed; and thus it shall be in the future, Sitta Khadra. I shall
learn to do without, in order that I may enjoy. Do not scold me for
this; do not say, with the rest, that I am an obstinate boy! I am
not, mother, but I must prepare myself for the future which you have
announced to me. Your dream must be realized, and therefore must I
do what I am doing. Let me have my way, and remember that Allah is
with me everywhere. And remember this, too, mother, that wherever I
may be, I shall hear your call should you need me. If, at any time
when I am not here, you should need me, you have only to step out
before the door, and imitate the scream of the eagle when he hovers
in the air over his nest, and announces to his brood that he is
coming. You recollect hearing it when we were on the cliffs together
the other day. I pointed to an eagle hovering in the air, imitated
his cry, and begged you to do so too. It was not done without a
purpose, mother: I wished you to learn his cry, in order that you,
too, might call your brood in case of need."

The mother smiled. "A strange idea! What would people think if I
should step out before the door, and scream into the air in the
tones of an eagle?"

"Let people think what they please, mother," said he, with a
contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "What care we? They already
laugh at and mock us. But a time shall come, Sitta Khadra, when they
shall bow down before you, and I only implore that Allah may permit
you to live to see the time when your son shall stand on the palace,
and wield his sword over humanity. Why do you sigh, mother?" he
asked hastily, and what he had never before observed, suddenly
occurred to him; her cheeks were sunken, and her face pale. "Why do
you weep, mother?"

"I know not, my son. I only fear the time is yet far distant when
Mohammed Ali shall stand on the palace with uplifted sword, the
nations bowed down before him! I am only afraid I shall not live to
see this time."

"Are you ill, mother; are you ill?" cried the boy, anxiously and
tenderly. He rushed to her, clasped her in his arms, and fixed his
brown eyes on hers with an earnest, anxious look. "Tell me--I
conjure you in the name of the prophet--tell me, are you ill, Sitta
Khadra?"

She forced herself to regard him with a smile. "No, light of my
eyes! beloved of my soul! When I see you, I am not ill; when I see
and hear you, my heart is in health and at rest, and--"

"You have no disease, no pains?" asked her son, interrupting her.
"Your cheeks are pale, and your lips tremble. Tell me, nothing ails
you, you are quite well?"

"Quite well, my beloved, and nothing ails me. All that is wanting in
my poor life is the moment when you shall have become a great man,
honored by men, and blessed by Allah."

"Honored by men, I will become; the blessing of Allah you shall
implore down upon my head, mother! You must only remain in health to
see me in my grandeur. You will not pain me, mother, by falling ill,
and following my father Ibrahim Aga, before you can say to him, --My
dream is realized, and your son Mohammed has become a great and
mighty hero,' will you? Leave me not too soon, mother; promise to
remain with me on earth until the prophecy is fulfilled."

"Dear boy!" said she, with a sad smile. "How can the poor child of
earth promise what Allah must alone decide? We must walk as Allah
directs, and submit to his will. with humility, for thus it is
written in the Koran: --Before the great God who sits enthroned
above the stars, bow thy head in humility; Allah determines, and man
shall obey in pious submission. So must we, my boy! Man is mortal,
and passes away; as the withered leaf is wafted away by the wind and
perishes, so the storm wind of life seizes upon man and destroys
him."

"But not you, not you, mother!" cried the boy, fiercely grasping his
mother's shoulders in childish anger." No, I will not believe it,
and it shall not be! The storm shall not destroy you, for you must
live to see your son great and mighty, that he may recompense you
for your days of sorrow and suffering."

"You hurt me," said his mother, gently releasing her shoulders from
his grasp. Mohammed burst into tears that poured down his cheeks in
streams.

The mother kissed them away. "My son, pearl of my existence!--only
light in life's night!--my beloved son, what would I be without you?
what should I do in the dark night without the luster of this star?
I kiss these eyes, son of my heart, and bless you with Allah's
blessing! Be strong and brave, my son, and weep not! Leave tears to
women. You are a man in spite of your thirteen years, therefore weep
not; even though the worst should befall, weep not."

"The worst? What does that mean, mother? You wish to prepare me, I
read it in your look; you wish to prepare me for your death! If you
die, I will die, too; if you die, my whole life will I bury in the
sea, and--"

He could speak no further, and heart-sick he bowed his head upon his
mother's shoulder.

"You are not yourself, poor boy," said she, gently, as she bathed
his forehead with water; "you see the body still governs the mind,
and long fasting has made you weak. Remember this, my boy. To keep
the mind vigorous you must give the body nourishment; if you had not
fasted for two days, you would not weep now. Not because you are
alarmed, but because you are weak, do you weep."

He understood these words of heroism; he understood that maternal
love had given her strength to console him with these quiet, matter-
of-fact utterances. He tenderly kissed her hands, murmuring: "Sitta
Khadra, you are a heroine, and I will learn from you to be a hero."

They sat in each other's embrace for a long time, silent, and yet
they were speaking to each other with their thoughts and souls, and
understood what soul said to soul, and heart to heart. Often, after
long years, will the son still think of this hour when he sat by his
mother's side, in solitude and silence, his head resting on her
bosom--in his glittering palace will he still think of it? In the
fulness of his magnificence, with the soul's eye, will he look into
this poor, dark little chamber will he longingly think of his
mother, of his first and holiest love?

"Promise me, Mohammed," said she, after a long silence, "promise me
that you will never fast and torture yourself so long again."

"I promise you, Sitta Khadra," he replied in a low voice, "you are
right; the body must be strengthened that the soul may be strong. I
need a strong body that I may be able to climb the rocky pathway of
life to the summit, to the eagle's eyry, far above the lowliness of
life. I promise you, mother, that from this day I will no longer
torture my body, but it shall be taught to defy want, and to
subordinate itself to the mind. Do not scold, Mother Khadra, if I am
often away from you. In solitude I learn. I converse with the
invisible spirits that hover about me in the air. They teach me
wondrous things, which I cannot relate to you to-day, but which help
me to prepare for the future. Do not forget, mother, when I am away
from you, and you need me, to call me with the eagle's cry."

A faint smile trembled on her lips. "If, however, son of my heart, I
should be unable to utter this cry, if my voice should be too weak
to reach you-"

He again regarded her with an anxious, inquiring look. "Can that be,
Sitta Khadra? Do you believe your voice can become so weak?"

"Be reassured, my son; I neither believe nor fear it, but yet it
might be."

"Yes, it might be," said he, passing his trembling hand across his
brow. "I shall go to Uncle Toussoun Aga and tell him how to call me.
Only promise me, mother, that, if you need me, and are not able to
call yourself, you will send for uncle and tell him to do so. I
could otherwise have no peace; could not attend to my work and
occupation, unless I knew that you would have me called to you when
you need me."

"It shall be so, my son. When I need you, you shall be called, and
now do not allow yourself to be disturbed in your occupations. Fly
out, young eagle, out into the air, out among the rocks, and learn
from heaven and earth what to do to prepare for your future."

She kissed his brow and laid her hand on his head in a blessing.
Mohammed kissed this hand, and then sprang to his feet and went to
his old uncle Toussoun Aga. With perfect gravity he begged
permission to teach him the eagle's cry, that he might be able to
call him when his mother should need him.

The old man looked up from the fishing-nets, at which he was
working, in utter bewilderment. "What possesses you, Mohammed Ali?
What an idea to take into your head, to train the old fellow who is
good for nothing but to make nets for the fishermen, in which they
catch the red mareles and the blue flyers--to train this old fellow
to imitate the eagle and scream like the king of the air!"

"And yet you must learn to cry like this same eagle, uncle!" With
resistless force he drew his uncle from his mat, and almost
compelled him to go up with him to the verge of the rock. High above
where the cliff projects far out into the sea, there, with a serious
air, Mohammed taught his uncle the eagle's cry.

At first his uncle refused to imitate him and utter the cry as
directed, but Mohammed regarded him with so wild and angry a look,
and then entreated him in such soft and tender tones to do it for
his dear mother's sake, whose call would, perhaps, be too weak to
reach him, that the old man could at last no longer refuse.

When he had imitated him in a loud, shrill voice, Mohammed smiled
and nodded approvingly.

"That will do. And if I should be ever so distant and hear this cry,
I will come home to mother. But tell me, Uncle Toussoun Aga, tell
me, by all that is holy, by the prophet and by the name of Allah,
tell me the truth: is my mother ill?"

Toussoun Aga's countenance assumed a very grave expression, and he
looked down confused.

"Answer me!" cried Mohammed, vehemently. "Is my mother ill? In the
name of the prophet, I command you to tell me the truth!"

"Do not demand it, son of my beloved brother, Ibrahim Aga," said the
old man, sorrowfully. "It does not become man to pry into the
mysteries of Allah. We are all in Allah's hand, and what be
determines must be, and we should not attempt to look into the
future."

"Yet tell me--and may Allah forgive me for wishing to look into the
future--is my mother ill?"

"She looks pale," murmured the old man. "When she walks her breath
is short, and, when she gives me her hands in greeting, I feel them
burn as though fire flowed in her veins. But it may pass away,
nephew. She may recover; she is still weak from her former illness;
you recollect the severe fever she had? But she will recover, and
for this purpose Mr. Lion sent her the strengthening wine; it will
do her good, and she will get better."

"Yes, she will get better," said the boy. "It is impossible she
should die, for I should then be entirely alone in the world."

"Entirely alone?" asked the old man, regarding him reproachfully.
"As long as Toussoun Aga lives, his nephew, Mohammed Ali, is not
entirely alone."

Mohammed held out his hand. "Thanks, uncle." He nodded to the old
man, turned away, and sprang off over the rocks with such rapid
bounds that old Toussoun looked after him in amazement.

"He leaps like a gazelle. Light is his step, and splendid his
figure. How long will he still bless his mother's sight? how long
shall my old eyes be gladdened by this young gazelle, this young
eagle?"

The old man bowed his head upon his breast, and two tears trickled
slowly down his cheeks.




CHAPTER IV

PREMONITION OF DEATH.


Since the day when Mohammed had first conceived a dark foreboding of
his mother's insidious disease, he had become more earnest and
gloomy in his disposition. The other boys avoided meeting and coming
into collision with him; they paid the well-earned tribute of fruits
from their parents' gardens, and assumed an almost humble demeanor
in his presence. He sometimes challenged them to race or wrestle
with him, but only the strongest and most active would enter into
such trials with him, and he always remained the victor. They were
in the habit of turning down a side street when they saw him
advancing toward them, and, when they observed him among the rocks
with his little gun on his shoulder, they would hide themselves
behind some rocky projection and remain concealed until he had
passed. But Mohammed saw them. His eye would glitter when he passed
their hiding-places, and a contemptuous smile play about his lips.
"The hawks fear the eagle," he would murmur to himself, "but the
eagle will some day pluck out their feathers and show them that he
is master."

Striving to earn money to procure little luxuries for his mother, he
would more rarely absent himself from home for longer periods than
formerly. When the storm raged, and, the boldest fishermen feared to
venture over to Imbro where their nets were laid, Mohammed would
offer to go for them, provided they gave him double wages; and the
fishermen, fearing that the wild waves might bear away their nets
filled with the rare fish that only came up from the deep during the
storm, would willingly accede to his demands. One day when the sea
was roaring and foaming wildly, one of the fishermen stood upon the
shore imploring Allah to save the nets he had taken to Imbro the day
before, and which, assuredly filled with the rarest fish, bad
perhaps already become a prey to the waves.

"Why not go after them?" said a mocking voice behind him. "Go over
and get your nets."

The fisherman regarded the intrepid boy Mohammed, who now stood at
his side, with severity. "No one would venture out in such a storm.
Moreover, this is Thursday, the evil day on which the ghins, who
draw men into the deep, are abroad. I must therefore lose my rich
catch and the nets besides. Your old uncle, Toussoun Aga, will be
well pleased, however, for it will take all I have to purchase new
nets from him."

"My uncle can make no nets at present," said Mohammed. "He has been
ill for weeks; I therefore advise you to save those you have, as you
will find it impossible to procure as good ones from anybody else."

"A good piece of advice!" cried the fisherman, angrily. "But what am
I to do if the storm tears my nets away?"

"Try to save your nets," replied Mohammed, laughing. "What will you
give me if I go over and get them and the catch of fish besides?"

"You wouldn't attempt it! Look how the waves roar and open their
wide jaws as if to devour you even here on the shore! You will not
venture out."

"I know the waves," replied the boy, "and I know your boat. It
glides over the water like a nutshell, and the monsters of the deep
love me and will safely bear me over to the island on their backs. I
will go if you will give me what I ask."

"What do you, ask?"

"You shall give me half your fish. If I bring them over safely, call
four of your friends; let them fairly estimate the price, and then
pay me my share. Will you agree to this, Omar?"

"No, I will not! This is unheard of!" cried the fisherman, angrily.

"Just as you please," said Mohammed, quietly. "You would rather lose
the whole, than save half, and the nets besides. Consider well that
Toussoun Aga has perhaps made his last nets, and that yours were
quite new, and the finest quality he ever made."

"Be satisfied with a fourth part of the fish, and the bargain made,"
said Omar, as he looked longingly toward the island, now, as the
waves had subsided somewhat, visible as a dark spot on the horizon.
The boy regarded him angrily.

"I am no tradesman, and will not be cheapened. Half of the fish, or
I remain here."

"Well, if it must be, take half, you usurer!" cried the enraged
fisherman.

"Where is your boat?" asked Mohammed, quietly.

"Down there in the inlet. And now be quick about it, boy!"

"Directly! But every thing in its order. You must first acknowledge
the bargain before witnesses."

"Before witnesses?" cried the enraged fisherman. "Is not Allah the
witness of an honest man's promise? "

"He is. But who knows but the roaring of the storm has prevented
your words from ascending to his ear?" replied Mohammed, with a
mocking smile. "I will bring Mr. Lion; you can repeat your words
before him."

Before Omar could prevent him, the boy bounded away to the merchant,
and begged him to come and witness Omar's promise. The merchant
willingly followed his favorite in spite of the storm and the spray
which the waves tossed up to the spot where the men were standing.
When he learned what was in contemplation, and when Omar had
repeated his promise, the merchant shook his head resolutely. "This
cannot and shall not be. You shall not drive the boy out in such
weather; the sea is an open grave, as it were!"

"Mr. Lion!" cried Mohammed, advancing toward him, his arms folded on
his breast. "Look at me! Why do you call me a boy? Am I not taller
than many of the men on our island; am I not stronger than many boys
of eighteen?"

"It is true," said Mr. Lion. "Though only fourteen, you are no
longer a boy. I beg your pardon, Mohammed Ali, for considering your
years and not your strength. But all the same, whether youth or boy,
no one goes to sea in such weather."

"I will show you that one does go to sea in such weather, when good
wages are to be made!" exclaimed Mohammed, as he, before the
merchant could prevent him, quickly ran down to the little inlet,
loosened Omar's boat from its fastening, and sprang into it.

He was soon out among the waves. They roar and surge around him, but
what cares he? He throws himself down in the boat and holds fast
with both hands. The waves alternately lift him aloft, and bury him
out of sight. It is splendid sport. It is long since Mohammed has
felt so well as now, when tossed in his frail skiff on the foaming
deep. He shouts in exultation

"Thus will I battle my life long! Thus will I ever vanquish
difficulties through life! And see, the wind is favorable, and I
shall get over!"

What he had exultingly shouted to the waves, took place; he got
safely over, found the nets in good condition, drew them ashore, and
waited on the rock until the storm had somewhat subsided. Really it
seemed that Sitta Khadra was right: his agathodaemon watched over
him, for, sooner than usual, the tempest calmed down, and the sun
broke forth from behind the clouds. It was now a comparatively easy
matter for Mohammed to get back to the opposite shore where Omar was
awaiting him with several of his comrades. The fisherman's face was
angry and lowering. It annoyed him that he had not waited for the
storm to go down, instead of making the bargain with Mohammed, for
he must now keep his word and pay the boy what he had earned. This
day his rich catch of fish gave Omar no pleasure. His face grew
darker and darker, while the men were opening the nets and counting
the fish. It was well that the shrewd boy had caused Omar to repeat
his promise before a witness, and before so highly esteemed a wit
ness, for the fisherman would have otherwise refused, in all
probability, to share the harvest of his nets with Mohammed.

He was now compelled to yield to the decision of the fishermen, who
declared that the half of the fish caught were worth at least four
ducats. The boy's eyes sparkled with delight as Omar reluctantly and
hesitatingly drew the money from his long leather purse and handed
it to him.

"It will bring you no blessing!" growled the fisherman. "You are a
greedy, headstrong boy; you deprive the father of a family of half
his hard earnings. The ghins will pay you back for what you have
swindled me out of."

"I have swindled you out of nothing. I risked my life for four
ducats, have earned them honestly, and it does not become you to
abuse me for it before these people.--Speak yourselves, you men, am
I right?"

"Certainly you are right," they cried with one voice.

"No; no one can abuse you for receiving your well-earned wages,"
said Mr. Lion, beckoning to the boy to follow him.

"You must be exhausted--come with me to my home. You shall dine with
me and drink a glass of wine. Your clothes are thoroughly drenched;
you shall dry them at the fire."

Mohammed laughed. "Wet I am, to be sure, but the fire that burns in
my veins will soon dry the stuff. I will, however, gladly eat a
little and drink a glass of wine with you. It was a hard fight with
the sea-monsters, they seemed to roar in my ears, 'We will have you,
we will pull you down!' And yet it sounded sweetly! There is no
finer music than when, the sea-monsters come up from the deep and
sing their wild songs."

"You are a strange being," said Mr. Lion, regarding him lovingly. "I
rejoice in you, and, if it were not that people would say of me that
I wished to convert a Mussulman to my religion, I would gladly adopt
you as my son. Tell me, if I should leave this place, would you go
with me to the land of the Franks, accept my religion, and become
the heir of my fortune?"

"And you ask this? Say that it was a jest! For you surely could not
desire that the son of his father should become a renegade! No, Mr.
Lion, a Mussulman who could allow himself to be converted into a
Christian dog--pardon me for having uttered this word, it was not
intended for you, but--"

"But only for the Christian dog!" said Mr. Lion, smiling. "Let us
leave it as it is. You have offended me, and I you. Let us be
friends again, and empty a glass with each other."

Mohammed accompanied him to his house and ate with him and drank of
the fiery Cyprian wine. After having refreshed and strengthened
himself, he turned to Mr. Lion with a merry countenance:

"Now to a little business matter that I have to transact with you;
for, if I had not met you below, I should have come up here after
you. Look at my four magnificent ducats; I should like to invest
them with you."

"You are a shrewd lad, and are disposed to improve your good
fortune. That is right, and without so doing, one makes no progress
in the world."

"You shall invest them with me, and they shall bear you good
interest."

"Not in that way," cried Mohammed. "I have no desire to lay a grain
of sand on a mountain, with the expectation that it will bear fruit,
whereas it is only lost among the others. No, I wish to buy goods.
You have always been kind and friendly to me, and from me you will
certainly not demand as much as from the rich people of the town, or
the governor."

"You are right, Mohammed. You shall have the goods at the price they
cost me. What will you have?"

"A magnificent silk dress, and a long white veil, such as the ladies
of rank wear."

"See, see!" exclaimed the merchant, regarding the boy, whose eyes
fairly sparkled in amazement. "You were right, Mohammed, you are no
longer a boy. You are in love, and it is assuredly a bride to whom
Mohammed wishes to present this love-offering?"

"No, Mr. Lion, no bride, but a love-offering the articles certainly
are."

"Only an amorous intrigue, then?" asked the merchant, shrugging his
shoulders. "You are beginning early with such things, Mohammed. Yet
I am glad you are not about to affiance yourself, as is customary
here at your age, with a girl ten years old, whose eyes please you,
or who has a good dower; ten years later, after she has been long-
veiled, and you no longer know how she looks, you marry her and take
a wife to your home, whom to be sure you have often seen and often
spoken to, but of whose present looks you know nothing."

"If we do not like her, we send her back to her mother. There is
nothing that binds us to keep the woman we do not like, and our
prophet has arranged this very wisely--while you Christians must
keep the woman, though you sometimes find yourselves very badly
deceived. Praise to Allah, and thanks to the prophet!"

"Then it is an amorous intrigue? Well, I will not demand the reason,
for the young gentleman certainly knows the first law of love--
discretion," observed the merchant, with a smile.

"I have no use for that law," said Mohammed, proudly. "You shall
know. This love-offering is for my mother. She is the only woman I
love, and she will also be the only one I shall ever love. Give me a
beautiful dress, richly embroidered, and a veil adorned with golden
fringe. She shall go no more to the mosque so poorly dressed. She
shall be magnificently arrayed, that she may be envied by all other
women. Give me something very handsome."

"You shall have it, my boy. Excuse me for calling you so again, but
this time it is done to show you my love for your childlike heart.
Come with me to the hall. You shall select the handsomest dress,
regardless of the cost."

He led him to the hall in which he kept the magnificent goods from
which the ladies in the harems of the Turks of rank were accustomed
to select their festal dresses, and spread the beautiful goods out
before Mohammed. The boy's eyes sparkled with pleasure as he beheld
this costly array. He selected a magnificent piece of purple satin
embroidered with silver, and an Indian veil of the finest make,
adorned with fringe of real gold. It was a suit that would have
delighted the daughters of the sultan at Stamboul, and it did not
occur to Mohammed that it was worth at least ten times as much as he
had to give for it. Mr. Lion took the four ducats with a smile, and
handed him the beautiful goods wrapped in gilt-edged paper.
Mohammed, proud of his bargain, took the package, and ran in
breathless haste to his mother.

"Here, mother, I bring you something you will like!" he cried.

"Yourself?" asked Khadra, with a gentle smile. "I need nothing
else."

"Yes, Mother Khadra, you do need something else. You need a dress
and a veil, such as the other ladies of rank wear. Do not be
alarmed, mother, it is honestly acquired. There, take it, and
rejoice!" He spread the costly goods out before her, expecting her
to cry out with delight. But she only became sad; on her pale cheeks
glowed the roses which Death bestows on those whom he is about to
call to himself.

"My son!" said she. "This magnificence is not for me!"

"Yes, Mother Khadra, it is indeed for you. Ask the merchant, Lion; I
paid for it honestly. You think, perhaps, I have not noticed that
the dress in which you go to the mosque is torn and faded? You
think, perhaps, I do not know that your head-dress has often been
mended? I well know that it has been. I know, too, that the women
laugh and say mockingly:--She has not even a Sabbath dress, and
appears before Allah in the garb of a beggar!' Therefore, I rejoice
at having been able to procure a new dress for you, mother. Have it
made, in order that you may appear before Allah in festive attire."

"No my son, it is impossible," said Khadra sadly, as Mohammed held
out the costly package.

"Why impossible?" cried he, excitedly.

"Because it does not become the widow of Ibrahim, the poor woman, to
array herself in garments of purple, gold-embroidered satin, like
the ladies of rank. The women would laugh at and mock me more than
ever if I should wear such magnificent garments instead of my faded
dress. Neither can I wear the veil. You can preserve all this to
give to your bride some day. It does not become old Sitta Khadra to
adorn herself thus."

"You are not old, Mother Khadra," said he, in half-tender, angry
tones. "You are still young, and when you adorn yourself with these
garments, there will be no handsomer woman in all Cavalla than Sitta
Khadra. I beg you to put them on; but, to please me, leave the veil
a little open, as the other women do, that people may see how
beautiful my mother is."

"This is folly, and I, am glad no one else hears your audacious
words. No chaste woman opens her veil to permit the gaze of
disrespectful men to fall on her, and my son Mohammed does not wish
to blush for his mother. My son, take back this package to Mr. Lion.
I cannot wear such clothes."

"You will not take them?" said the boy, hastily seizing the package.
"What my heart's warmest love offers, you reject?"

"I reject it," said she, gently. "I have no need of such clothes."

"Very well," cried he, defiantly. "If you do not need these clothes,
I will give them to the mermaids. They, too, like fine clothes, and
they will thank me more for that which I have bought with my life.
Yes, I will do this!"

He rushed to the door with such violence that Khadra could hardly
recall him. "Where are you going, Mohammed?"

"To the cliffs. What my mother despises I will throw, into the sea."

"Well, if you are about to do that, it shall be as you wish," said
the mother, leading him back from the door. "If the mermaids are to
have these beautiful things, it is better Mother Khadra should keep
them."

"You promise me to wear these clothes?" said he, a smile suddenly
illuminating his face.

Khadra seated herself, spread out the beautiful goods, and regarded
them with a mournful smile. "It looks like mockery."

"No, not like mockery, but like pure love," said the boy, eagerly.
"My love dresses you in purple and gold, and I wish to see Sitta
Khadra the most brilliant among women." A blissful smile suffused
itself over his features. But suddenly this smile disappeared, and
his countenance assumed an expression of care and anxiety. At this
moment he saw how pale his mother was. Her pallor contrasted
strangely with the purple lustre of the goods she held in her hands.

"You are not ill, Mother Khadra; you are not suffering?" said he, in
the same anxious tone in which he had so often asked.

"No, my son, I am not ill," said she, regarding him calmly.

"When I shall some day wear this beautiful dress, and this gold-
embroidered veil, you will take delight in me. Thank you, child of
my heart, light of my eyes! Thank you for this, splendid present I
will hold it in honor while life lasts."

"I thank you for accepting it, and beg you not to be angry with me
for having been so violent," said Mohammed, entreatingly, as he
kissed his mother's extended hand. "Tell me once more, mother, are
you well; do you feel no pain?"

"I feel well, and am not suffering," said she, regarding him
lovingly. 'I should gladly see you indulge yourself in one of your
walks to the cliffs or mountains. It is long since you have taken
one. I feel better than usual. I shall go to your sick uncle to wait
on him, and when I return I shall lie down. You need not fear that I
am waiting for you. Go to the mountains, beloved of my heart!"

"I shall do so gladly," he cried, embracing and kissing her
heartily. He then walked with hasty steps to the door of the hut,
and out into the free air.




CHAPTER V

THE STORY-TELLER


"I HAVE done work enough to day," murmured Mohammed to himself, as,
after having left his mother, he walked through the dirty suburb to
the stairway hewn in the rock that led down to the cliffs. "Yes, I
have worked enough, and mother is well; I will therefore go to my
paradise, and rest there awhile."

He sprang down the stairway and walked hastily toward the cliffs.
After looking cautiously around, he crept through the narrow opening
in the rocks into the passage. The silence did him good, and a happy
smile played about his lips. "Here I am king," he cried, loudly and
joyously. "This is my realm, and I shall soon enter my throne-
chamber. How have I longed for this, how glad am I!" Suddenly he
stood still. "What were Mother Khadra's words?" he asked himself.
"'Only he who practises self-denial can enjoy.' Have I not always
said to myself that I would accustom myself to want, and learn to
enjoy by denying myself that which pleases me? Have I not said that
I would not walk on rose-leaves, but learn to tread on thorns, that
my feet might become inured to pain? And now, like a foolish child,
I am delighted at the prospect of entering my cave, my throne-
chamber! 'Only he who practises self-denial can enjoy.' Remember
that, Mohammed, and learn to practise self-denial; I will learn it!"
he cried so loudly that his voice resounded throughout the entire
cave.

He turned and retraced his steps. "I would gladly have gone into my
cave, would gladly have reclined on my mat, have looked up at the
blue sky, and down into the beautiful, sea, that tells me such
wondrous stories. Folly! I can hear stories elsewhere. Scha-er
Mehsed tells stories, too, and on the whole that is more convenient
than to tell them to myself."

He walks on hastily, without turning once to look back at his
beloved grotto, walks on into the world, to men whom he does not
love, and who do not love him.

He will learn to practise self-denial, and joyfully he now says to
himself: "I am already learning it, and now I can also enjoy."

At this moment he observed Tschorbadji Hassan, who had just turned a
corner of the street, advancing, followed by his servants.

When he perceived the boy, he stood still and greeted him with a
gracious smile. Mohammed, his arms folded on his breast, inclined
his head profoundly before the mighty man.

"See, Mohammed! The splendid shot! You come at the right moment,
Mohammed; I had already sent out a slave after you. Osman, my poor
sick son, craves a strange repast. He has seen pigeons whirling
through the air, and thinks, probably, because he knows they are not
easily to be had, that there can be nothing better in the world than
a roasted wild pigeon. Now, I know, Mohammed Ali, that no one can
use a gun better than yourself, and it would give me great
satisfaction to have you procure some of these birds for my son."

"I will do it gladly, because it is for Osman," replied Mohammed. "I
will bring them myself, within the hour. I beg you, gracious master,
to tell your son that I am glad to be able to do something for him.
I must be off after my gun."

Mohammed withdraws himself with a total absence of ceremony, not
waiting until Tschorbadji Hassan Bey dismisses him with a gracious
wave of the hand. He flies to his mother's hut, takes down his gun
from the wall, and loads it. He then climbs rapidly among the cliffs
in search of the wild-pigeons for the poor sick Osman.

In an hour, Mohammed returned with his game. As he walked along,
carrying the four birds in his band, he said to himself with a
smile: "Was it not well that I learned to deny myself a pleasure?
And here I have the recompense, the enjoyment. For it is a
recompense to be able to gratify a wish of dear good Osman; he was
always so kind to me."

He now entered the court-yard of the palace in which Tschorbadji
Hassan Bey resided. An Armenian slave stood at the gate, who seemed
to have been awaiting the boys. He bowed profoundly, which he had
never done before, and announced that his grace Osman Bey was in the
garden, and had ordered that Mohammed Ali should bring the pigeons
himself, and that Tschorbadji Hassan was also there awaiting him.

"Show me the way, I will follow," said Mohammed, whose tranquil
countenance gave no indication that he felt flattered at the great
honor of being admitted to the garden.

The Armenian led the way with an air of profound respect. Proudly,
his head erect, Mohammed followed him through the wide hall of the
palace and into the garden.

The fragrance arising from the carefully-cultivated flower-beds was
delightful; the kiosks and baldachins were so charming! "Paradise
must be like this," thought Mohammed, and he breathed the fragrant
air with delight. But he turned his head neither to the right nor to
the left, that no one might observe how wondrously beautiful
everything seemed to him, and that he had never before seen any
thing so magnificent.

There, under the beautiful tent with the golden tassels, and the
gold-glittering star--there, on a couch, reclined a pale, thin boy,
and at his side, on a chair richly embroidered, sat Tschorbadji
Hassan.

As Mohammed now advanced with elastic step, his head erect, the two
looked at him in admiration.

"How splendid he looks!" murmured the pale boy. "That is health,
father, and life. He is just my age, and only look at me!"

The tschorbadji suppressed a sigh, and smiled gently as he looked at
his son. "You are ill, my Osman. Allah will grant you speedy
recovery, and then you will become strong and healthy like Mohammed
Ali.--Well!" he cried to the boy who had stood still at some
distance with his birds in his hand--"well, I see you have kept your
word, and brought my son the wild-pigeons."

"I have, and am glad that I was able to do so." replied Mohammed, as
he now came nearer in obedience to the bey's request, and greeted
the pale boy with a joyous smile.

"Give me your hand, Mohammed," said the young boy, who had partially
risen from his cushions, and was supporting himself on his elbow.
Timidly, Mohammed took the boy's pale, thin hand in his own.

"Tell me, Mohammed, why do you not come to see me oftener? You know
how glad I always am to see you."

"Master, he did not visit you, because it does not become the poor
to intrude upon the rich and noble," replied Mohammed, his eyes
fixed with an anxious expression on Osman's pale face.

"Rich and noble!" repeated Osman, with a sigh. "You are rich,
Mohammed, for you are healthy. You are noble, Mohammed; for the
inhabitants of the sea and of the air must obey you. You have power,
and that is nobility."

The tschorbadji was displeased with these humble words of his son,
and his brow became clouded.

"I think you should be content with your riches and nobility, my
son," said he. "Come, hand me the pigeons, Mohammed."

He took the beautifully feathered birds from Mohammed's hand, looked
at them, and let their feathers play in the sun light. "Yes, they
are still warm; so the world goes. An hour since they disported
themselves in life's sunshine. The child of man comes, sends a few
shot through their bodies, and their glory is at an end. But, I
thank you, Mohammed, for having so quickly complied with our wish.
Here is your reward." He took two gold-pieces from his purse and
handed them to the boy in his outstretched hand.

Mohammed did not take them. He drew back at the words of the
governor, a deep color suffusing itself over his cheeks.

Osman perceived this, and motioned to him to come nearer to his
couch. "Mohammed," said he, "father forgot to add for what purpose
he wished to give you the money. Not for yourself. I know that your
procuring these pigeons for me was an act of friendship. You have
always been friendly to me, and I shall never forget what you did
for me the other day."

"What was it?" asked the tschorbadji, with surprise.

"You know nothing of it, father. I did not mention it to you because
I feared it might make you angry," replied Osman, gently. "I had had
myself carried out on the rock. You know I like to rest there, in
the sunlight, under the olive-tree that stretches out its limbs over
the water. From that point you can look so far out over the sea.
There you can see where heaven and earth unite, and strange dreams
and wishes overcome over me there. The sea murmurs at my feet in
such wondrous, mysterious tones, that my heart warms and my breast
expands. The physician, too, had said that I should breathe the
fresh air of the cliffs very often, and I had been carried out, and
lay there at rest in sweet, solitary silence. I did not observe that
the sky was darkening, and a storm coming on. It also escaped the
notice of the two servants who had carried me out in the chair. Now
that the rain already began to fall in large drops, they became
alarmed, and both ran away rapidly to procure a covered palanquin,
as the physician had said I must be carefully guarded against taking
cold. They had hardly gone and left me alone when it began to rain
harder, and I felt the large drops slowly trickling down upon me
through the leaves of the olive-tree. The rain was very cold. The
storm raged and tore the protecting foliage of the tree apart.
Suddenly I heard footsteps. It was Mohammed Ali. He was rapidly
passing by, but when he saw me lying there under the tree, alone, he
came up to me, and understood the situation at a glance. In spite of
my resistance, he spread his body over me, and protected me from the
rain and discomfort.

"When the servants arrived with the palanquin I had remained
perfectly dry, while Mohammed was wet to the skin. I begged him to
come with me. I begged him to accept a gift. He refused both, and
cried, laughing, as he ran away to escape my further thanks: 'For me
it was only a welcome bath! You it would have hurt, Osman.'"

"Good, by Allah! That was well done," said the tschorbadji, with his
aristocratic smile. "You served my son as an umbrella. I thank you
for it, Mohammed, and will reward you. A new mantle shall be brought
you, for I perceive that your own is torn and old."

"I thank you, master. It is good enough for me. This mantle is an
inheritance from my father. Mother preserved it for ten years, and
now I wear it, and wear it with pride, as a souvenir of my father.
Thanks for your kind offer."

"Then take the money," said the tschorbadji. "You see I still hold
it in my hand."

"Thanks, master. I have no need of the money."

"You must take it, Mohammed," said Osman, gently. "As I told you
before, father has forgotten to add for what purpose he gives it.
You are to go and hear the new scha-er, the story-teller. Do you
know him already?"

"No, Osman, I do not. What of this scha-er?"

"I have heard him much spoken of," replied Osman, gently. "He is a
rival of the old scha-er; Mehsed. You know the old one always sits
in the middle of the market-place, on a stone, and tells the people
stories of the olden time, and of the magnificence of the Turkish
Empire. Now a new storyteller has come, from Constantinople it is
said, and people say his stories are very beautiful. But he does not
seat himself on a stone in the middle of the market, but in the wide
hall of a store. There he has hired a corner, and there he sits.
Around himself, as far as his voice reaches, he has fastened a rope
to stakes, and whoever wishes to enter the circle thus formed must
pay to hear his stories. I should like to do so, too, and have often
entreated my father to allow me, but they say it would excite me too
much, and that the air of the hall would be too close for me.
Therefore, Mohammed, I beg you to go there for me, listen to the
stories, and then come and repeat them to me. You see it was for
this purpose father gave you the money.--Is it not so, father?"

"Yes, my boy, it shall be so if you desire it. I give him the money
that he may hear the new scha-er, and if it entertains and pleases
you. Mohammed shall come to you and relate what he has heard."

"Will you afford me this pleasure, Mohammed? I am not strong and
healthy like you; I cannot climb the rocks, like you; cannot sit on
the cliffs and listen to the voice of the sea and the storm; cannot,
like you, enjoy the delight of taking exercise in the open air! Here
I lie on my bed, and all that is good and beautiful must come to me,
if I am to enjoy it. Then come to me, Mohammed Ali!"

With a kindly look, he again held out his pale, attenuated hand, and
Mohammed felt that warm tears were trickling down his cheeks, and
that somehow he could not speak while the pale handsome boy was
looking at him so entreatingly. He took Osman's hand and pressed
heartily in his own.

"I accept the money from Tschorbadji Hassan," said he, in low, soft
tones. "I shall go and listen to the new scha-er, and, if you wish,
Osman, I shall come to-morrow, and every day, to relate to you what
I have heard; and it will please me if it gives you pleasure."

"I thank you, Mohammed, and beg you to come to-morrow ready to
relate to me.--Give me the money, father," said he, addressing his
father, with a gentle smile. "I will give it to Mohammed for the
scha-er."

He took the money, and Mohammed willingly accepted it from him, and
thanked him.

"I will go to the scha-er at once, for this is his hour, I believe."

He bowed hastily and slightly before the tschorbadji, but profoundly
and reverentially before the poor pale boy, and rapidly walked back
toward the gate, thinking not of the beautiful flowers that
surrounded him, rejoicing only at being able to do something for
Osman Bey, and rejoicing, too, at the prospect of listening to the
scha-er.

It was just the hour at which the new scha-er, the rival of old
Mehsed, began to relate his stories in the hall. With an earnest,
respectful air, the men and boys sat around in the wide circle on
their mats, and listened, slowly moving their bodies to and fro, to
what the scha-er was relating.

Mohammed noiselessly entered the circle, and seating himself as
close as he could in front of the scha-er, listened in breathless
attention to the loud, resonant voice that told of the glories of
the past

"I have not come to tell you of the fatherland to-day, not of
Turkish might and grandeur. Your humble servant has been proclaiming
to you their wonders for the last few days," said he. "To-day I have
turned my gaze toward distant worlds and kingdoms. I am about to
tell you of the provinces converted into parts of our realm by the
power of the sultan. Have you heard of the land that lies over there
beyond the sea--the land of the Egyptians? Great is the history of
this people, and from it we can learn that Allah alone is great, and
that, next to him, and next to the prophet, nothing is so great as
our emperor and master, our Sultan Selim, at Stamboul, on his
imperishable throne. I told you yesterday of the origin of the
kingdom of Egypt, and of the struggles carried on by barbarian
hordes against each other. I then went on to tell you of the caliphs
of Bagdad, how they had ruled in Egypt, and how they, too, were
overthrown in their magnificence. Now listen. Egypt was lost to the
caliphs of Bagdad; after long struggles their rule was at an end
forever. A fortunate soldier, named Tokid, possessed himself of the
rich and fertile kingdom that lies beyond the ocean. He held the
reins of government with a strong hand, and an army of four hundred
thousand men spread themselves over the whole land, like a swarm of
hornets and grasshoppers, and held the trembling people in
subjection. But he died, and a black slave named Kafour, took the
sceptre from the hands of the dying man, and said, 'He gave it to me
as to his successor.' And the four hundred thousand hornets and
grasshoppers repeated these words, and the nation bowed its head and
submitted to the rule of this black man.

"But one man bad the courage to defy this slave. He was a descendant
of the house of Ali, which could boast of being the house of the
great prophet.

"Mahadi Obeidallah was the name of this grandson of Ali. He was
strong and mighty before Allah, and he held in his strong hand the
green flag of the prophet, of his ancestor, an heir-loom in his
family, as he landed from his ships with his troops, at Alexandria,
the great city that lies on the shore of Africa, and belongs to the
realm of Egypt.

"Nothing could resist the descendant of the prophet, and Mahadi
Obeidallah erected his throne in Alexandria. The conquest of Egypt,
begun by him, was finished by his grandson, Moez. He brought a
hundred thousand men, commanded by his vizier Jauhar, to Alexandria,
and marched with them through the desert toward the great city of
Fostal, which Caliph Amrou had built.

"Near this great city, Jauhar founded another with splendid walls
and palaces, and he called it El-Kahera--that is, the--Victorious.'
Proudly, victoriously, beside the old city of Fostal, arose the new
city of El-Kahera, the wondrous city! Moez sat enthroned there in
the midst of his realm, and he founded in El-Kahera, the Victorious,
the dynasty of the Fatimite caliphs; for Fatima, the daughter of the
prophet Mohammed, had married Ali, who was the head of the house
from which Moez and Jauhar descended.

"The new city, El-Kahera arose quickly, and soon became the model
for all that was beautiful in the arts and sciences in Egypt. The
haughty Bagdad, once so mighty, sank into the dust before her.

"But the Fatimites were neither wiser nor more fortunate than the
Abbassites, of whom I told you yesterday, had been. The people could
not love them, for the Fatimites ruled tyrannically, and knew
nothing of pity and love; and the religion of the prophet, which
teaches that we should love and do good to our fellow-men, they
practised with their tongues only, but not in reality. They thought
it sufficient to be able to call themselves descendants of the great
prophet, without imitating him in his good works.

"At last one of them even dared to proclaim himself the prophet. His
name was Hakem. To him it did not seem enough to be the descendant
of Mohammed, of our great prophet--he wished to be king and prophet
himself. He desired to found a new religion, and, because the
inhabitants of El-Kahera would not bow down before him in the dust,
and abandon their prophet, Mohammed, for his sake, he caused the one
half of the beautiful city of El-Kahera, the Victorious, to be laid
in ashes, and he allowed his wild hordes to plunder and rob the
other half. He rejoiced in this, and imagined Allah would be
contented. He said, too, that Allah conversed with him each day, and
gave him instructions with his own lips. It was for this purpose
that he went daily into the mountains of Mokatan, which rise on the
banks of the Nile, near the city; and there he, a second Moses,
communed, as he declared, with Allah.

"But one day he did not return from the mountains, and when his
janizaries sought him they found him lying dead on the ground,
pierced with daggers.

"The Fatimites had ruled over Egypt for two hundred years. Their
glory was now at an end, and Allah sent the unbelievers as a scourge
to punish those who had dared to set themselves above the prophet,
to punish the sons of Hakem who had declared himself to be the
prophet.

"The unbelievers, who called themselves Christians, came, therefore,
with a cross on their arms, and a cross on their banners, conquered
El-Kahera, and levied a tribute of many millions of piasters. But
the Caliph Addad, a son of Hakem, called to his assistance
Noureddin, the ruler of the land of Alep, who sent him a powerful
army, and the army of the Christian dogs was scattered like dust
before the winds.

"Yet Addad reaped no blessing from the assistance thus called to his
side--the son was to be punished for the misdeeds and tyranny of his
father Hakem. A strong and mighty man had come with Noureddin's
army; he made himself Addad's vizier, their commander-in-chief, and
Addad died of mortification. Saladin the son of Ayoub, assumed his
place, and became the ruler of Egypt, and founded the dynasty of the
Ayoubites."




CHAPTER VI

THE MAMELUKES.


The scha-er paused a moment, and directed a glance of his wild black
eyes at the audience surrounding him. The men regarded him with
profound gravity, and nodded their heads in approval, and requested
him to proceed.

Rejoicing at his success, he continued in a loud voice: "But the
rule of the Ayoubites did not last long; it was even more brief than
that of the Fatimites.

"The reign of the ten sultans distinguished the short and glorious
history of their house, which, above all, loved show and splendor.
The palaces of these proud rulers of El-Kahera were crowded with
servants and slaves.

"It was at this time that the Mogul, Genghis Khan, assembled all the
Tartar hordes of his land under his banner. They followed him to the
banks of the Tigris, and nothing but terror and desolation, ashes
and bones, were found where they had passed. Burning and destroying,
they marched to the banks of the Caspian Sea. Lamentations,
followed, and numberless corpses encumbered the track of his army.
At last, weary of their bloody work, the Mongols stopped to rest in
beautiful Circassia.

"Here they purchased slaves for their masters. One Ayoubite alone
purchased twelve thousand young men: with them he repaired to Asia
Minor, where he dressed them in rich, glittering garments, and
called them his Mamelukes, that is, 'those he had acquired and paid
for.' And now, listen, ye men of Cavalla, in this manner there arose
in history a new tribe, a new race, and it gave itself the name of
Mamelukes. Even the sultan formed for his service a corps out of
their race; they became mighty and valiant, increased from
generation to generation, and before them rulers trembled. Yes, even
the Sultan at Stamboul feared their might.

"The Mamelukes, however, dethroned the last Ayoubite, the one who
had purchased them. The Mamelukes vanquished all the Christian dogs
who came to the holy land to fight for what they call the holy
grave. They murdered the last sultan. They then placed on the throne
one of their own race, a Mameluke. And observe, ye men of Cavalla,
with this begins a new era in the history of this land: the
Mamelukes mount the throne, and make themselves masters of Egypt.

"But upon this fearful deed, follow disorder, revolt, terror, blood,
and death! I could tell you much more of the atrocities done by the
Mamelukes, unheard of as yet by any of you, and such as the history
of no other land can exhibit. I could relate to you the histories of
all the other nations of the world, but if ye listened, ye men of
Cavalla, to the history of the Mamelukes of the last century, the
events of all the other lands of the world would sound to you,
compared with the deeds that have been done in the land of the
Egyptians since the year 620, after the birth of the great prophet
Mohammed, like nursery-tales. On the grave of the prophet sat, her
features shrouded in a bloody veil, the holy spirit of the history
of the world, sadly recording the atrocious deeds of the cruel,
implacable forty-seven tyrants who reigned on the bloody throne of
El-Kahera during two hundred and sixty-three years. Seventeen of
them were murdered, and eighteen of their successors dethroned. The
rule of each lasting but a few moons. The tyrant was always hurled
down by the tyrant.

"One would have supposed that the Mamelukes would have shown more
love and reverence for the princes of their own race than for
foreign rulers, but the reverse was the case. The Mamelukes believed
that they were under no obligation to respect a prince of their own
race more than themselves. They raised their hands threateningly
against every one who dared to consider himself something better
than they. They considered themselves the advisers of the princes of
their own race, and without their approval, these princes could
undertake nothing whatever. And worse than this ambition, were the
machinations and plundering of the intriguing men who surrounded the
throne of the Mamelukes. Even Allah's wrath was aroused by this
corruption, and the prophet grew angry. Allah punished them for
their horrid deeds, and sent down famine, pestilence, and misery,
upon the degraded land. The people lay in dust and ashes. In their
despair they wrung their hands, and implored Allah to rescue them
from this misery and torment.

"At last, after two and a half centuries, Allah sent them relief
through the Ottomans.

"They could not be worse than the Mamelukes; for nothing on earth
could be worse; the dagger was the only law of these slaves, who
called nothing their own, and had neither family ties, fatherland,
nor religion.

"Had they not come from Circassia? Had they not been purchased as
slaves and brought to Egypt? Had they not been Christians, and were
they not of Christian descent? But they had been forced, the slaves,
to assume the holy religion of Mohammed. The prophet, however, does
not incline his ear to enforced service. He who does not willingly
lay down his faith and fidelity upon the altar can expect no
blessing from Allah. The Mamelukes learned little, except to read
the Koran, to handle the sword, to ride, and to be pitiless against
everybody. They also learned to flatter the master who had purchased
them, to bow down in the dust before him, and to be nothing for him
but a mere tool that has ho honor, no thought, and no sensibility of
its own. When the Mamelukes were fully matured, had become expert in
using their swords, and managing their steeds, and when their chins
became covered with beard, the masters who bad bought them made them
freemen, and gave them the rank and title of a kachef, an officer
who was to lead and command the others. The, kachef was the
lieutenant of those who had not become free. They gave him a salary,
or made him a confidant or assistant. When he got thus far, had
become free, and been made a kachef, a career of ambition, but also
of intrigue, trickery, and treason, opened itself before him. His
shrewdness was irresistible, his strong arm acomplished all things.

"The kachef did homage to his first master only, but, if the latter
were dead, and the Mameluke had become a freeman, hey could attain
to the throne through blood and murder. All the vices, with their
interminable train, had made their entrance into El-Kahera. The new
ruler well understood how to acquire riches, power, and respect, by
force, and from a kachef he made himself bey. From the proceeds of
his booty he purchased a swarm of slaves, who were compelled to
follow him. He was only a military power. The Mameluke princes
measured his rank and influence by the number of followers in his
train when he passed through the streets of Alexandria. There were
kachefs who owned a thousand slaves, and beys who possessed two
thousand. By this you can judge the wealth of these Mameluke beys,
for each of these servants cost them two hundred patras. But this
expense was the smallest. There were, besides, the women, the
beautiful Arabian horses, the splendid weapons, the Damascene
blades, the glittering jewels, the costly cashmere shawls: all this
belonged to the household of a Mameluke bey. The means by which he
acquired all this were robbery, trickery, blood, and murder.
Whatever was bad and vicious, corrupt and shameful, this the
Mameluke practised without fear or hesitation. His virtue was that
intrepidity, that courage, that boldness, that recoils from nothing,
from no danger, from no abyss; that yields to nothing, and to which
nothing is sacred. But the slaves willingly submitted to a brave
master, and greeted him as a hero.

"They galloped through the streets on their proud steeds, despising
those who walked. When drawn up before the enemy on their war-
horses, they bore down upon them boldly, and scattered them to the
winds. But if the enemy were able to resist the force of their first
fierce attack, they turned their horses and galloped away in wild
flight.

"Such was the state of things when two hundred years ago the
Ottomans marched with large armies into Egypt, to combat and
vanquish the haughty Mamelukes.

"And now the time selected by Allah to punish the insolent race of
the Mamelukes and their rulers who were seated on the throne of
Egypt had come.

"The nations one by one submitted to the rule of these sons of
Mohammed. After protracted struggles they had established a united
empire on the banks of the Bosporus, and had built the proud city of
Stamboul. The son of Mohammed governed as an illustrious ruler,
until at last the Christian dogs came and conquered the magnificent
city, and took up their abode in the shining palaces built by the
last emperors of the house of the Comnenes. In the city of
Constantinople, as they have named our beautiful Stamboul, they
resided. A glittering throne was erected there; but the green flag
of the prophet no longer fluttered from the minarets of the mosque,
which they called the 'Church of the holy Sophia.'

"When the great Selim I. heard of the deeds of the Mamelukes, his
zeal and his love for the prophet impelled him to restore his holy
kingdom, and he marched with a mighty army into Egypt, to punish the
wicked who were in arms against the prophet. He marched through
Armenia, Mesopotamia, and Syria, into Egypt. Terror and lamentation
were in his train; before him nations bowed down in the dust. He
advanced victoriously, made himself master of Aleppo, and marched on
to storm the sacred El-Kahera, which they now call Cairo. The
Mamelukes defended themselves long and desperately, until they at
last succumbed to superior numbers.

"But tranquillity was not yet restored to Egypt; the Mameluke
prince, Tournan Bey, stole into the city at midnight, and with his
Mamelukes murdered the entire Turkish garrison. Filled with wrath
the great Selim returned and laid siege to the city. It held out for
thirteen days and nights, but after fierce struggles was at last
compelled to yield. Selim punished them terribly; they were all made
prisoners, and Tournan was hanged in the midst of the city. Selim
entered the city as its conqueror and ruler.

"You will suppose that Egypt now at last became tranquil and that
the Mamelukes bowed down submissively before the great sultan,
before the green flag of the prophet that floated in triumph from
the citadel. So it would have been, had not those Mamelukes who had
survived the fearful slaughter done among their ranks, brooded on
vengeance. But I tell you, so long as there shall be one Mameluke
left in the world, so long will he do battle with his sword; he is
not to be vanquished, unless indeed he be trodden under foot as a
venomous serpent, and destroyed forever.

"The noble Selim had magnanimously omitted to do this. He allowed
the Mamelukes to take the oath of fidelity, supposing they would
keep it. He then made all Egypt a province of the Turkish Empire,
and returned to the banks of the Bosporus. He came home, a
victorious hero, covered with honor, and the whole empire received
him with exultation, and peace and happiness returned with him to
Stamboul. Over in Egypt, however, things were no longer looking so
peaceful, although the noble Selim had been so generous to the
Mamelukes that he had not only given them their lives, but also
accorded them a portion of their former power. He had desired to
have two powers in the government that should watch each other, and
therefore the great and wise ruler ordered that twenty-four Mameluke
officials should be appointed to share the government with his own
Turkish officials. In the same manner as the sultan appoints a
pacha, or governor, had the Mamelukes also appointed a chief. This
chief was called Sheik-el-Belad, and his power was equal to that of
the pacha. He had seven adjutants, the odjaklis, who commanded the
seven corps of which the Mameluke army consisted. And, I say to you,
the Mamelukes were more powerful in El-gahera than are the pachas in
Turkish cities. Their strifes and feuds were such, that those were
among the unhappiest of Egypt's days.

"And now, hearken to the dreadful conclusion. I will narrate to you
what has taken place in Egypt in this century. The Mamelukes
overthrew the rule of the Turkish grand-sultan, under the leadership
of the bloodthirsty Ali, the new bey who stood at the head of the
Mamelukes. He drove out the sultan's pacha, and announced through
him to Selim, 'that the Turkish rule was at an end, and that Egypt
was again free, he having driven out the Turks with the edge of the
sword.' And Egypt, the rebellious province, was for a time again
free; that is to say, enslaved by the Mameluke Bey Ali, who
attempted to extend his power further and further. He sought to form
alliances even with the enemies of Selim, even with those who did
not believe in the holy prophet. He even sought, with flattery and
entreaties, to prevail on the grandees of the republic of Venice to
furnish him with assistance against the aggressions of the Turks. He
drew his sword and drove our armies even unto Mecca in Arabia,
possessed himself of the holy city of Mecca, and even carried his
boldness so far that he caused himself to be proclaimed Grand-Sultan
of Arabia, and ruler of the two seas.

"Yet the eye of Allah beholds the unjust, and punishes the wicked;
and I will now give you the very latest intelligence I have received
from the holy city. May it fill your heart and soul with joyous
gratitude for the justice of Allah! Yes, Allah punishes the
insolent. And by the hand of his favorite, of Mohammed Abou-Dahab,
in whom the Grand-Sultan Ali confided, was he laid low. This slave
Mohammed murdered his master, and seated himself in his place. But
him, too, did Allah punish as a wrong-doer and criminal. Allah
punished the treason which Mohammed had practised on his master by
afflicting him with madness. Day and night he beheld before him
Ali's terrible bloody shade; in horrible dreams he saw the
countenance of his murdered master, and at last, amid fearful
torments, he slew himself.

"Do you suppose peace had now at last come? Do you suppose that
Egypt now submitted to her rightful ruler, the Grand-Sultan of
Stamboul? Ye men of Cavalla, hardly was Egypt released from the
tyrant Ali, when three other Mameluke beys advanced to seize the
vacant throne.

"Mourad, Ibrahim, and Ismail, competed for the prize. Each of them
aspired to be the ruler of Egypt--each of them aspired to be called
Scheik-el-Belad.

"Mourad and Ibrahim united themselves to rule together in brotherly
love. They united their forces against Ismail, and they prevailed
against him--he was overthrown and murdered, extinguished like a
light that has shone but a brief day.

"And now, hearken to the end, ye men of Cavalla. The Mameluke begs,
Mourad and Ibrahim, have entered the golden city of El-Kahera, and
have become great and mighty. They have conquered the grand-sultan,
have possessed themselves of all the lands, brought all the
Mamelukes into subjection, and have not rested until all Egypt has
been subjugated.

"And now you know, men of Cavalla, that the sons of the slaves, that
Mourad and Ibrahim, rule in the holy city El-Kahera, and in all
Egypt. Proudly do these Mameluke princes hold up their heads. From
slaves they have become heroes, and from heroes they have become
princes."




CHAPTER VII

DREAMS OF THE FUTURE.

In breathless attention, utterly oblivious of all else, Mohammed had
listened to the words of the scha-er; and long after he had
concluded, and the audience begun to disperse, he still sat, his
eyes widely extended, and gazing fixedly at the cushion on which the
sha-er had sat, as though he were still there, relating the deeds
and wonders of the Mamelukes. Suddenly the silence that surrounded
him aroused him from his preoccupation. He arose and walked slowly
out, still hearing the voice that related such wondrous stories of
distant lands. Thoughtfully he wandered on toward the rocky pathway.
He had forgotten all else: the mother on whose account he had been
so anxious, the boys whom he was in the habit of regarding so
contemptuously when he met them, and whom he now scarcely sees as
they pass by; the cave, too, his paradise, is forgotten. He would no
longer desire to return to this dark, dreary solitude.

Upward, upward to the highest point of the rock, to which the name
"The Ear of Bucephalus" had been given! He climbs the rocky ascent
like a gazelle. Thither no one will follow him; there the eye of the
prophet alone will see, and the ear of Allah alone hear him. Up
there he will be alone with God and his dreams.

Now he is on the summit, gazing fax out into the sea, into the
infinite distance where heaven and sea unite and become one. He
stretches out his arms and utters a cry of exultation that resounds
through the mountains like the scream of the eagle:

"Thither will I, to the land of promise and of fortune!--to the land
where slaves become heroes, and heroes princes! Mother, your dream
shall be realized! There I shall find palaces on whose summit I
shall stand with uplifted sword, nations at my feet. To Egypt will I
go. To the land of grandeur and glory, where for thousands of years
the greatest and mightiest have made of themselves princes and
rulers. I will become mighty; I will cultivate my mind, that it may
help me to rule men. Then I will make of myself a prince before whom
all other princes shall fall in the dust!"

He shouts again exultingly, and the walls of the cliffs echo back
his cry. He feels so happy, so free from all earthly care. He seems
to float in upper air like the eagle, looking down upon the
lowliness of earth beneath.

As he looks out into the distance, he sees a little dark spot rise
on the horizon. His eagle-eye perceives that it is a ship. As it
comes nearer, it dances on the waves, and its white sails expand
like the wings of a giant swan. It is a beautiful, majestic object.
The young Mohammed rejoices at the spectacle, and says, in low
tones, to himself; "Some day I shall possess ships, too. Some day I
shall tread the deck of the great admiral's ship."

The ship glides over the glittering mirror of the deep, and comes
nearer and nearer, and the curious are now assembled on the shore to
gaze at it; for rarely do vessels seek the rocky promontory of
Bucephalus to land in the bay of Contessa. The peninsula is desolate
and barren, and there is nothing here for merchant-ships but the
tobacco for which this region is celebrated. A Turkish galleon comes
semi-annually for the taxes which the governor has levied, to bring
them to Stamboul to the coffers of the grand-sultan.

But the vessel now approaching is no Turkish galleon, but a
magnificent ship; and one can see on the deck, under the gold-
embroidered tent, a Turk reclining on cushions. Slaves in rich
attire are on their knees before him, others are behind him fanning
the flies away with fans made of peacock-feathers.

"Who can this great man, this stranger be?" ask the curious, who are
standing on the beach, gazing fixedly at the ship that has now
entered the little bay, and is steering toward the landing.

Mohammed has also hurried down to the beach. To-day, while his heart
and mind are filled with the narrative of the scha-er, to-day every
thing seems to him so strange, so wonderful; it seems to him that he
is about to receive intelligence from the world his whole being
longs for so intensely, the world that is one day to lie at his
feet.

The ship has entered the bay, and a boat containing three Turkish
gentlemen is coming from it to the shore: They haughtily step
ashore, and pass by, without saluting the crowd, to the pathway that
leads up to Cavalla. But the grand-looking Turk is still on deck,
reclining on his cushions; the slaves are still about, filling and
refilling his long chibouque, on whose golden mouth-piece brilliants
are seen glittering.

Mohammed's keen eyes observe all this, and he follows each movement
of the aristocratic Turk with breathless attention. Thus, he thinks,
will he also do some day; thus will he, too, recline on his silken
cushions, surrounded by his slaves he; the prince!

How would those who were standing around the boy have laughed if
they could have divined Mohammed's thoughts, if they had known that
he was dreaming of his future magnificence while standing there on
the beach in his wide cotton pants, tied at the bottom around his
ankles with strings, his felt thrust into a pair of peaked shoes of
doubtful color, a faded red shawl bound around his waist, on his
body a well-worn brown shirt, the whole crowned with the red
tarboosh that covered his dark hair, around which was wound a white
and riot particularly clean kufei!

Who could have imagined that this poor Turkish child was dreaming of
future glory, and saying to himself, as he regarded the grand
gentleman on the deck of the ship: "I will one day be as you are,
and even greater than you!"

The governor, accompanied by the strange Turks, and followed by
servants carrying palanquins, was now observed coming down the
pathway from Cavalla. Hastily he walks to the beach, and, with the
Turks, enters the boat and steers for the ship.

The governor has now reached the ship and climbed to the deck, but
the grand gentleman does not stir from his cushions, and only greets
him with a gracious nod. The people on the beach observe this with
astonishment, and ask each other: "Who can this be? Tschorbadji
Hassan is the greatest man on our peninsula, and every head bows
down before him. And this gentleman dares to salute him with a mere
nod. Truly he must be a very great man!"

Mohammed regards the people who are speaking contemptuously, and
murmurs to himself: "I shall be a greater man some day. He is no
prince, else his ship would show the admiral's flag, and the
governor would fall on his face before him. The scha-er told me that
such is the custom in the presence of princes. But the people shall
one day prostrate them selves on their faces before me!"

At last the grand gentleman arises slowly from his cushions, and
lays his arm on the shoulder of the governor, who walks at his side,
his head bowed down, and seemingly delighted at being permitted to
bear this burden on his shoulder.

They walk to the stairway; the governor busies himself in helping
the stranger to descend, jumps into the boat, and extends his band
to assist him to enter. He tranquilly receives these attentions; the
slaves follow, and lay gold-embroidered cushions on the bottom of
the boat, and the grand gentleman reclines on them in an easy
attitude. The governor stands before him, addressing him with an air
of profound reverence, and the slaves take up their position behind
him, and waft refreshing breezes to him with their fans. As the boat
reaches the beach, the governor turns and addresses the people in
imperious tones:

"Bow down in the dust before the grand-vizier--before Cousrouf
Pacha! Salute his excellency!"

All fall on their knees, and remain there in mute reverence, while
the pacha, accompanied by the governor, and followed by his slaves,
ascends the pathway to Cavalla.

One person only had not fallen down on his knees, and that person
was Mohammed Ali.

He had secreted himself behind a rock, and there he stands,
regarding the pacha with eager eyes, and glancing contemptuously at
those who, at other times so noisy and arrogant, are now bowed down
in the dust, and who have as yet not even ventured to raise their
heads.

But now the scene on the shore becomes an animated one. The governor
has ordered that other boats be sent out to the ship, and a peculiar
and wondrous sight presents itself on board.

White female figures, closely enveloped in long white veils, appear
on deck. Tall men, with black faces and fat bodies, stand at their
side. The sailors have disappeared from the deck; no one is now
visible but the white female figures and the fat black men.

"That is the harem of the grand-vizier," the people now whisper to
each other, "and those men at their side are the eunuchs."

Two of these eunuchs now come to the shore, and, in threatening
tones, order the men to leave the beach at once, and to go up to
Cavalla to announce there that no one shall allow himself to be seen
in the streets.

The men hurriedly ascend the pathway to the city, without even
venturing to look back at the pacha's harem.

Mohammed Ali alone is nowhere to be seen. He has crouched down
behind the rocks, and no one sees the fiery eyes that peer out
cautiously from his hiding-place.

The women, looking like white swans, are now rowed to the shore.

The beach is bare--no one sees them. They can venture to open their
veils a little, and look about them on this strange shore.

Oh! what glowing eyes, what purple lips, are disclosed to the boy's
sight! For the first time, his heart beats stormily; for the first
time, he feels a strange delight in his soul. Yes--beautiful are
these women, as are the houris in paradise, and enviable is he to
whom they belong.

Two of the eunuchs walk before the women, four walk beside them, and
imperiously command them to draw their veils closer together. They
approach several of them with profound respect, and extend their
hands to assist them in entering the palanquins that stand ready to
receive them; the others must go on foot.

Loudly resounds the cry of the eunuchs who walk in advance: "The
harem--the harem of his excellency! Away, ye men! The harem!"

At this cry all flee to their houses in the city above, and none are
to be seen in the deserted streets but the ladies of the harem that
are being borne along in palanquins, and the train of veiled figures
behind them.

The procession moves on to the governor's house, where a strange
scene presents itself. Servants are standing about in gold-
embroidered garments; all is confusion and motion. His excellency
the pacha condescends to take up his abode in the governor's palace,
and the upper saloons are being opened and prepared for the
distinguished guest. Adjoining the main building, a side building,
with barred windows, extends far out into the garden. Until now it
had stood empty, for the governor cares not for the society of
women; his heart is cold toward them; he loves nothing but his son.
The harem is empty, and is therefore ready to receive the women and
slaves of his excellency Cousrouf Pacha. The shutters of the windows
have long stood open--the eunuchs now come forward and fasten them
securely. The vast building has now become quite still.

Mohammed had watched the procession until the last white swan had
disappeared upon the plateau above. He now slipped out of his
hiding-place, and walked down to the beach to look at the ship. He
had not observed that other boats had put off from the ship to land
more passengers.

"I should like to know the destination of this proud and beautiful
ship. I should like to sail with it," murmured the boy.

"Then do so!" cried a loud voice behind him. "If you wish to, my
lad, come with us. One leads a splendid life on such a ship. You are
tall and strong, and will be gladly accepted."

His countenance beaming with joy, Mohammed turned and saw at his
side a boy of slender figure, in simple Turkish garments, but his
hair was closely cut, and not covered with the fez and kuffei.
Mohammed glanced fiercely at the boy.

"You are a slave!" said he.

The boy nodded and laughed.

"I am a slave. But I don't expect to remain one long; I have already
heard that the capitano intends to sell me over there, and there one
can make his fortune, that I know!"

"Over there?" said Mohammed, eagerly. "What do you call over there?"

"Well, the place we are going to!" exclaimed the boy, laughing. "To
Egypt we go, carrying rich goods, and I myself, so to speak, am a
piece of goods for the capitano."

"You go to Egypt?" asked Mohammed; "to the land of wonders, where
slaves become heroes, and heroes princes?"

"Ah! you have heard it spoken of, too!" said the boy, laughing.
"Yes, the sha-ers everywhere have something to relate about Egypt.
In Stamboul I have often heard them tell of the Mamelukes, too!"

"Of the Mamelukes? Of them, too, you have heard?"

"I have not only heard of them, but I intend to make a Mameluke of
myself. As you know, these Mamelukes are the slaves of the beys in
Egypt. I hope to have the good fortune to be purchased by a bey. I
know all that is necessary to become the servant of a Mameluke."

"And what is necessary?" asked Mohammed, eagerly. "What is it that
you know?"

"I can ride as well as the best of the horsemen of the grand-vizier.
On a bare horse I can fly over the plains with the speed of a bird.
I know how to handle the sword and the spear, and in the fastest
gallop I can sever the head of a horse from his body. These are arts
that are useful over there, and in them I am a master. You may look
at me in astonishment if you will! I am not as tall and stout as you
are, but I can tell you I have the strength of a giant, and, in
spite of my fourteen years, I am a man. I expect to make my fortune
in Egypt."

"And where have you been until now? From what place do you come?"

"I have been a slave from my youth; I was well brought up and had an
education; I know how to wait on fine gentlemen. I served a nobleman
as first valet for three years, but couldn't stand the dull,
effeminate life. I longed to be out in the world, and committed all
sorts of freaks in order that my master might drive me off. To be
sure, I received the bastinado daily, but I stood it like a man. I
determined to continue to annoy my gracious master until he should
sell me. Look at my feet!"

He took off his shoes and showed Mohammed the scarred soles of his
feet.

"These are the scars with which I have purchased my future. Yes; but
why do you look at me in such astonishment? By Allah! I should not
like to live on this rock here, like you! I must out into the world;
must go to Egypt, and make something great of myself."

"But how will you begin it?" asked Mohammed. "I should like to do
so, too."

"I don't know yet," replied the boy, carelessly; "it will depend
upon how I succeed in recommending myself to a bey with my
horsemanship and sword. One thing I can tell you, if I once become a
Mameluke, I shall rise. In case you should hear of me some day, in
case my celebrity should reach even this desolate rock, I will tell
you my name. My name is Osman, and in mockery, because I served a
nobleman, they added bey to it. But I tell you, I will make of the
name given me in derision a real title! If you hear of me some day,
I shall be called Osman Bey in earnest."

"I will tell you my name, too," said Mohammed, proudly, "and if you
ever hear of me, you shall know that you once met me here upon the
beach. My name is Mohammed Ali, and I am Ibrahim Aga's son. I am a
freeman, you must know, and have never bowed my head beneath the
yoke of another! Remember my name, little Osman, and, if Allah wills
it, you shall hear of me someday. My name is Mohammed Ali."

He nodded to the boy contemptuously, and walked off.

Osman laughed, and cried after him:

"You will probably hear of me first, you bold boy, you beggar-
prince! I shall probably never hear of the beggar-prince, Mohammed
Ali, son of Ibrahim Aga, but of me you shall hear, you silly lad!
Don't forget my name: I am called Osman Bey."

If they both could now have known the future! If a prophet had
permitted the two boys who met here for the first time, in order
that they might angrily impress their names on each other's memory,
to look into the future, what would they have seen in its mirror?

Two heroes opposed to each other in ardent love, and in wild enmity.
Both equally great, equally ambitious, and equally greedy of glory.
They would have seen blood flowing in streams for their sake. They
would have seen how Osman Bey, called by the name of Bardissi,
dashed onward, flourishing his cimeter at the head of thousands of
devoted followers. They would have seen Mohammed Ali in a glittering
uniform, mounted on his proud steed, at the head of thousands
charging with uplifted sword against Bardissi.

Here on a rock in the bay of San Marmora, the boys met for the first
time, and instinct permitted them to feel the enmity that existed
between them throughout their entire lives, and which caused
thousands to fall, and blood to flow in streams.

They know nothing of this now. Osman whistles a merry air and jumps
into the boat that bears him back to the ship. Mohammed Ali ascends
the rock to a quiet and solitary spot. There he will rest and
meditate on what he has seen and heard to-day.

The ship sails out to sea. Like a giant swan, proudly, majestically,
it glides over the blue waves, until at last it rises up in the
distance with its masts and spars against the horizon, faintly, like
a mere vision of the air.

Above, on the Ear of Bucephalus, stands Mohammed Ali, leaning on his
gun, his eyes fixed on the ship. He sighs profoundly as it now
disappears without leaving the slightest trace behind, as though
engulfed by the waters.

"Gone," he murmured--"gone! What was the name of the boy, the slave
who so defiantly charged me to remember his name? I remember, it was
Osman. Yes, Osman Bey, he said. Well, he may depend upon it I shall
remember his name, and he may also count on remembering that my name
is Mohammed Ali, if we should ever meet again. Oh, I envy him," said
he, in low tones, looking longingly at the horizon. "Oh, I would so
gladly have gone with him to the wondrous land the scha-er told of,
where slaves become heroes, and heroes princes. He, the slave, goes
thither; and I, who am free, am bound to this rock by my poor
mother, and must remain!"

The ship sailed on farther and farther on the bright waves. It
glided onward over the deep-blue sea two days longer; on the third
day the sailors shouted with joy, for the water had become green,
and this announced to the experienced seamen that they should soon
see land.

When the waves of the Mediterranean Sea change from blue to green,
the yellow coast of Africa is near. Another day passed, and the ship
entered the harbor of Alexandria. The black and brown people came
out to the ship, howling and yelling in their little boats, and with
them came the slave-dealers to look for human wares, to bargain for
the living as well as for the dead freight.

The captain shows the slave-dealers his line piece of goods, the boy
Osman Bey, and offers him as a good article of merchandise. "He is a
splendid servant, and knows how to color the chibouque, and how to
wait on his master with soft words."

"He knows more than that!" exclaimed the boy Osman Bey, indignantly.
"He knows how to scour across the desert on his steed without saddle
or bridle, and loves to flourish the cimeter and lay the heads of
men and animals at his feet with a single blow."

The slave-dealer regards him with favorable glances. That is what he
needs. The great Mameluke prince Mourad needs many servants and
warriors, and he gave the dealer authority to purchase men for him,
young, strong, and healthy men. The ranks of his Mamelukes need
recruiting. He will make a fine Mameluke, this slender young man
with the keen, glittering eyes.

"What will you have for the boy?"

The captain shrugged his shoulders. "He is really beyond all price;
for, as I tell you, he is a splendid servant, and, as he tells you
himself, he is a fine horseman, and knows how to wield the cimeter.
He is priceless, and I hardly think we shall come to terms."

They now began to bargain for this human merchandise. They made a
great deal of noise, quarrelled, and shook their fists in each
other's faces, while young Osman Bey stood at their side, his arms
folded on his breast, calmly looking on and smiling at the uproar
created on his account. At last they came to terms. The dealer
received his living goods, young Osman Bey, and paid the captain the
price agreed upon.

If young Mohammed Ali could see this: if his dark brown eye could
send a glance with the speed of an arrow across the waves and
through the days and nights ; and if he could hear how the slave,
Osman Bey, is traded off for sugar and coffee; if he could see Osman
standing in the slave market awaiting a purchaser; if he could see
Mourad, the Mameluke bey, at last approach, smile approvingly on
young Osman, and finally purchase and place him among his followers;
if he could have seen this and the future, he would have felt proud
and happy in being a free man, although a poor one. His hands are
not fettered, he serves no master, and he cannot be bargained for
and sold like a bale of goods ! He is a free human being, conscious
of his own worth, and also conscious of the great future that awaits
him.

He is thinking of it now as he stands on the rock leaning on his
gun, and staring out into the air after the vanished ship. He does
not see the future; he only dreams of it as he looks out into the
vacant air, oblivious of the present. Nor does he see the mother,
who, while he stands there, is hastening painfully and breathlessly,
her head bowed down, from her humble but to the proud, main street
of the city, to the store of the merchant Lion.

The merchant saw her coming, met her at the door, and held out his
hand to her.

"Is it you, Sitta Khadra?" he cried, as she reached the door. "I
must tell you I have expected you, esteemed lady, light of my eyes"

She tottered into the hall and seated herself in the chair which the
merchant had hastened to bring her.

"Why these fine phrases, sir? Talk to me in short and terse
language, as you Franks are accustomed to do, and pay no attention
to the flowery words which, with us, the men are in the habit of
mocking instead of flattering us poor creatures."

"I am not mocking you, Sitta Khadra," said the merchant, gravely. "
I esteem you, for you are a good woman, and therefore I addressed
you as I did. I know you well, and I know what you have there hidden
under your veil."

"What have I there, sir?"

"You have brought me back the gold-embroidered goods, and the veil
bordered with golden fringe, which your son Mohammed bought for
you."

"Yes, sir; I have brought them back. They do not become me. I did
not like to tell the boy so, for it pleases him to think I will
array myself in them. I therefore accepted them, hoping you would
take them back."

"I expected you, and see, I have the money ready for you. When I saw
you coming, I took it quickly from my purse. Here, good Sitta
ghadra, are the six ducats which Mohammed gave me."

She shook her head gently.

"You are very kind, sir, and I thank you. Yet, I cannot accept them.
Mohammed would scold me when he learned it. He told me, himself,
that he had given you four ducats and not six. I divined that you
had given him the goods at a cheaper price, and that he could not
have paid for them at their real value. By this I perceived that the
sale was only a pretended one, and have hoped you would take back
the goods. But the money I will not receive."

"To whom shall I give it, then?" asked the astonished merchant. "I
dare not offer it to Mohammed; I believe it would make him so angry
that he would raise his hand against me. You must not tell him,
Sitta Khadra, that you have brought me back the goods."

"You are right, sir; I should not like to cause him this
unhappiness. I shall tell him I have taken the goods to the tailor
to have it made into a dress by the next Bairam's festival. But when
the festival comes, I shall no longer be here, and he will not see
that I have not put on the costly dress."

"You will not be here, Sitta Khadra? Then where will you be?" asked
the merchant.

She slowly raised her arm, and pointed upward.

"Up there, sir, with my beloved master, Ibrahim Aga; I shall see the
glory of Allah, and shall see the prophet, the great prophet to whom
my heart-felt prayers so often ascend."

"What is it you are saying, good Sitta? At the next Bairam's
festival, you will surely still be with us on earth."

She slowly shook her head.

"I am dying, sir. I have been dying for the last two days look at my
lips."

"They are red and fresh, and show that you are in health, Sitta
Khadra."

"Yea, my lips are red, because I have colored them with henna, that
Mohammed may not see how pale they are. For him I have colored my
cheeks, too. Good sir, one may deceive out of love, and Allah will
forgive me for having made my face a lie out of love for my son. I
tell you I am dying; therefore have I come to bring you the goods,
and to beg you to take the money and keep it. When he is in want
give it to him, and tell him Mother Khadra sends it with her best
blessing, and that he must accept it as a present from me, and make
a good use of it. I know, sir, that you will give it to him, and
that you will watch over him that you may know when he needs it.

"And one thing more I beg of you, whenever you see my beloved son,
say to him: --Mohammed Ali, your mother Khadra, loved you very
dearly, and sends you a greeting from Heaven, through me. She
dwells, above with your father, Ibrahim Aga, and both are looking
down upon you, and observing your actions. Therefore be thoughtful,
Mohammed, to walk pure and free in the sight of Allah and your
parents. Promise me, that you will often say this to my son."

"I promise, Sitta Khadra," said the merchant, solemnly. "I promise
you that I will watch over your dear son, and that, if it is in my
power, I will at all times be ready to lend him a helping hand. I
give you my hand to seal this promise, Sitta Khadra."

She took his hand, and the merchant knew by the heat of her thin,
wan fingers that a burning fever was in her blood, and that Death
had kissed her lips.

"Now, all is well," said she, as she rose to her feet with a painful
effort. "Now I will return home, that my darling, my Mohammed, may
find me when he comes. I have but a few more days to live, and I
would not lose a moment that I can spend with him. Farewell! Allah
be with you!"




CHAPTER VIII

THE FRIENDS.


In the house of the governor every thing was changed since the day
on which the grand-vizier had taken up his abode in the upper
saloons. Young Osman, the son of the tschorbadji, experienced this
change with great displeasure.

Since the stranger's harem had been installed in the side-building,
whose windows open on the garden, the governor's son can no longer
walk freely in all parts of the beautiful park and enjoy its
solitude without fear of interruption. By far the greater portion of
the park has been set apart for the use of the harem, and only a
small portion adjoining the courtyard is reserved for him.

"And yet fresh air and the sunshine are my only enjoyments," said
he, complainingly, to Mohammed Ali, who had come the next day,
according to promise, to repeat to young Osman what the scha-er had
spoken, to narrate to him the wondrous stories of the Mamelukes.

He lay reclining on a mat in front of young Osman's couch, and in
excited words, with glowing eyes, he told the heroic stories of the
proudest people of Egypt.

Osman's large eyes were fixed on his face in an earnest gaze, and a
slight color tinged his pale cheeks as he listened.

"Beautiful, is it not?" asked Mohammed, as he finished his
narrative. "Would not you, too, like to go to the land where, as the
scha-er says, slaves become heroes, and heroes princes?'

Osman shook his head gently.

"I do not know, Mohammed. I should be contented, I think, to remain
here, reclining on my cushions, the sun above me, and you at my
side."

"But what I have related is beautiful, is it not?"

"I do not know," replied Osman, for the second time. "I regarded you
while you were speaking, and I rejoiced in you. It seems to me,
Mohammed, as though you were the better part of myself. I feel as
you feel, and think as you think, and rejoice when I hear you utter
in fresh and glowing words that which my lips can utter with
timidity and hesitation only. If I were healthy, Mohammed, I should
be, I think, as you are. Therefore, whenever I look at you, it seems
to me I see myself as I might be, but am not."

"You will be yourself, again," said Mohammed, tenderly. "When you
have become strong again, no one will be able to compete with you in
manly exercises, and like all the other boys I shall have to bow my
head humbly before you, and shall have to pay you the tribute as
they pay it to me."

In reply, Osman merely raised his pale, transparent hand and showed
it to Mohammed.

"Look at this pare, colorless hand. A poor, withered flower, good
for nothing except to press the hand of a friend, but a hand that
can never wield the sword or battle with the unruly waves as yours
can. No, Mohammed! I shall perhaps have health enough to live like
the flower or the blade of grass, but not to live like the eagle,
like the steed, like Mohammed Ali! But I will not complain. I am
contented; every one has his portion of happiness on earth; mine is,
to lie on the purple in the sunshine, and to hear my Mohammed tell
stories. But I entreat you to come very often," he continued, with a
sigh. "They have now curtailed my little earthly happiness; since
this Turk has come with his harem and his glittering suite, I am
very miserable. I know that my father feels it, too, and often
wishes his distinguished guest had taken his departure."

"Will he remain long, Osman?"

"That depends on whether his sun shines again in Stamboul," said
young Osman, shrugging his shoulders. "I must tell you, Mohammed,
there are peculiar circumstances connected with this gentleman. He
has fallen into disfavor, and is waiting here to see whether his sun
will shine again or not. He has been sent into exile, and it was
really intended that he should go to Egypt, where the Mamelukes of
whom you have just been relating such heroic stories, have again
risen in wild insurrection against the Turkish governor, and
Cousrouf Pacha is lying in wait here because he has good friends in
Stamboul who are working for him, and because he hopes to be able to
return to the beautiful capital where he can revel in luxury;
whereas, if he should go to Egypt, he would be compelled to draw the
sword and march out to bloody battle."

"I hate him--the coward!" exclaimed Mohammed. "I despise men who
prefer eating sugar with women in the harem, to mounting their
steeds and taking the field against the enemy, sword in hand."

"That will never be your preference," said Osman, regarding him
tenderly.

"No, never," protested the boy. "Women are good playthings for hours
of leisure, when a man has nothing better to do. But to revel, like
Cousrouf, in luxury--to hide himself while he might be attempting
deeds of heroism--to be dallying with women instead of mowing off
the heads of his enemies, that I cannot comprehend. It is repulsive
to me to think of a man's surrounding himself with women, and taking
delight in their caresses and soft words."

"It suits Cousrouf very well!" said Osman, smiling. "He spends the
greater part of his time in the harem. Singing, music, and
rejoicing, are the order of the day there. Black female slaves fan
him with fans made of peacock-feathers; others, on their knees, fill
his chibouque, while he reclines on his cushions, smoking and
dreamily gazing at the beautifully-attired female slaves who dance
before him."

"And he," said Mohammed, "he, the vain man, imagines that they dance
and remain in his harem out of love for him!

"I suppose they make him think so. They say a woman's lips make a
lie sweet, and that her face always wears a mask! And yet" he
continued, looking dreamily toward the harem, "I must tell you,
Mohammed, I sometimes think I should be happy, too, and less
tormented with ennui, if one of these houris of paradise sat at my
side, chastely veiled, regarding me lovingly and I could look
through the white veil at the smile on her lips. Ah, Mohammed, we,
who are not made to become heroes, feel an irresistible longing
after love, and the sweet delight of being loved. You, of course,
cannot understand this."

"No, I cannot," cried Mohammed, with a contemptuous smile. "I shall
never bow my head beneath the yoke of female slaves, with their
beautiful almond-shaped eyes and purple lips. I shall consider all
women as playthings, with the exception of my mother," said he,
bowing his head with profound reverence. "Allah forgive me for
speaking ill of women, for our mothers are women, Osman! Forgive me
my pride and folly. I speak only of the light-footed slaves, with
the deceiving smile and the false eyes."

"And who knows,' said Osman, smiling, "but that my Mohammed, who
speaks of these fetters so derisively, may not some day be
vanquished? Do not set your face against it, Mohammed. Remember that
even the heart of the great prophet glowed with love, and that it
was he who peopled paradise with houris, and promised it, as the
highest bliss, that beautiful women should there kneel down before
the blessed spirits, gently stroke their feet, and look at them
lovingly with their lustrous, gazelle-like eyes. Therefore, do not
say, Mohammed, that your heart shall never be accessible to love!
Yours is a true, manly heart, and a manly heart must love. You see,
Mohammed, I am hardly a man, and shall probably never become one,
and therefore I do not believe that love will ever hold me in its
golden net; I shall love nothing but my best, my only friend."

"And will you tell me his name, Osman? " asked Mohammed, bending
down closely to him. Passionately, almost threateningly, he
repeated: "Will you tell me the name of this, your beloved, your
only friend?"

Osman, smiled, took from a cushion an oval mirror, framed in mother-
of-pearl, with a golden handle, and held it before Mohammed. "Look
at yourself, and you will know his name."

Looking, not at the mirror, but earnestly into his friend's eyes,
Mohammed stooped down and kissed Osman's lips.

"Listen, Osman, to what I say! I am almost ashamed to confess it,
and yet it is true, next to my mother I love you best on earth, and
I believe I could sacrifice my life for you."

"And I mine for you," said Osman, gently.

"Let us swear to be true friends forever," continued Mohammed.

"Here is my hand! Eternal friendship! If you need me, Osman, call
me, and, were I ever so distant, I would come to you. When in want,
or when cast down by sorrow and suffering, I will complain to no one
but you. What my lips will confess to no one else, they shall
confess to Osman. Shall it be so? Friendship for life?"

"Yes, life-long friendship!' said Osman. "Men need not know it. We
will preserve as our secret the bond of friendship we have formed,
and I only entreat of Allah that he may some day permit me to prove
to you that I am your friend."

"And this I entreat of Allah, too," said Mohammed, warmly pressing
his friend's wan hand. "But now let me go; the scha-er relates again
to-day, and I will go and hear him, and come to-morrow to repeat to
you what I have heard, if you wish it."

"I shall await you, Mohammed, and count the hours until you come."

They shook hands once more, and Mohammed hurried down the garden-
walks. Osman's eyes followed him lovingly.

"I love him, and may Allah enable me to prove it some day!"

Mohammed hurries on, heedless of the direction he has taken, and
forgetting that the use of the main avenue was forbidden since the
harem had taken possession of the park. He walks on, carelessly,
heedlessly. He wishes to pass out at the back gate of the garden, as
he often did. Hastening on, with flushed cheeks, he hardly perceives
a veiled figure, accompanied by two eunuchs, that has just stepped
out into the walk from a side-path. The eunuchs cry out, and
imperiously command him to depart instantly. Mohammed stands still,
shrugs his shoulders, and regards them derisively.

"Are you the masters here in the park of the tschorbadji of
Cavalla?" he asks, proudly. "I shall depart when I choose, and
because I choose, and not because the strange servants of the
stranger have the insolence to order me to do so."

He said this in haughty, angry tones, and with sparkling eyes,
inclined his head slightly to the veiled female figure, and passed
slowly by her without even a curious glance.

But she stands still, and her black eyes burn like flames as her
gaze follows him, and her purple lips murmur, in low tones:
"Beautiful is he, as the young day; beautiful as the rosy dawn of
heaven! Oh, that it shone over me! Oh, that this sun were mine!"

He heeded her not; he did not hear the sweet whispering of her lips.




CHAPTER IX

A SOUL IN THE AGONIES OF DEATH.


THE narratives of the scha-er continued to resound in Mohammed's
soul, and occupied him day and night. His existence seemed useless
and empty, and every thing that surrounded him colorless and
desolate. What cared he now for cliffs and caves, for the surging
sea, for the blue sky? How little it seemed to him to be the best
rifleman and oarsman of the island, to be renowned down in Praousta
as the best fisherman!

What does he care for all this? Who hears of what takes place in
Cavalla, or in the miserable village of Praousta? Nobody comes here
except the merchants who sometimes land to purchase the celebrated
tobacco, and the sultan's collectors who come twice a year for the
taxes.

Who knows of these insignificant places? Who observes Mohammed Ali
when he strikes the bird in its flight, or steers his boat over the
waves in the wildest storm? All is tame and paltry! With his mind's
eye he sees before him the cities the scha-er had told of. Over
there in Egypt, stretched out on the yellow shore of the green sea,
lies a great and magnificent city with towers, minarets, and
temples, a city such as he has never seen, the, city of Alexandria.
Before this city, in the spacious harbor that has existed for
thousands of years, lie long rows of ships with masts, and
fluttering flags, and golden images at their bows.

Little boats dance about the ship, and all is activity and bustle.
In the interior of the land shines El-gahera, the new city, with the
palaces of the caliphs and its hundreds of minarets and temples. The
streets are alive with men of all nations; there are Turks and
Arabians, Egyptians and Europeans. The blacks of Nubia and Abyssinia
mingle with the white men of France and Germany, and the languages
of all nations are heard.

He lay on the rock, on the Ear of Bucephalus, gazing out into the
distance toward the horizon, imagining he could see these wondrous
cities. He dreamed of the glories of the world, and his fancy beheld
boats and ships, palaces and minarets.

The sea lies beneath like a blue mirror. The waves murmur in low
tones as they caress the shore. The stillness is profound, the
solitude of the first day of creation surrounds him. Suddenly a cry
resounds, a loud, piercing one, such as the eagle utters when his
young are in danger. It aroused Mohammed from his meditation.

"Strange! I heard the cry, yet I can nowhere see the eagle that
uttered it."

For the second time it resounds, louder and more piercing than
before. Mohammed shudders in his whole being.

The cry is not that of an eagle. It is a human voice. Toussoun has
uttered it, and it announces that his mother is in danger. He
springs with horror to his feet, and bounds from rock to rock, down
the steep-he has just heard the cry for the third time.

"Await me, mother! O my mother, I am coming!"

Like an arrow he speeds through the suburb to his mother's hut. Pale
and terrified, Toussoun meets him at the door. He had risen from his
bed of sickness in response to Khadra's call. With weak, trembling
lips he had entreated her to allow him to call her son, and he did
call him, breathing out his last remnant of strength in summoning
Mohammed to his mother. Pale, weak, and ill, he now returns to his
own hut, supported on the arm of a neighbor, and returns to die.

Mohammed has not noticed him. He springs to the door, tears it open,
and sees the women who have come to Sitta Khadra's assistance. Now
that he has come they walk out noiselessly, and wait at the door.

How long will it be before she is dead, before they can assume the
role of mourning-women, and begin their lamentations? True, Sitta
Khadra is poor, but then the community will, out of self-respect,
pay the mourning charges. Consoling themselves with this thought,
the women crouch down at the door.

Mohammed kneels beside the mat on which his mother lies, takes her
hands--now almost cold-in his own, bends over her and looks into the
widely-distended eyes that stare vacantly up at him, and sobs in
loud, heart-rending tones "Mother, Mother, Do you hear me? Here I
am, your son, Mohammed. You cannot die, for I am with you!"

The words of her son reach the mother's soul, that was already on
the point of fluttering to heaven. It returns to its poor frail
habitation. Life returns to her eyes, and a faint smile plays about
her pale lips. The mother heard her child's voice, and her soul
returned to the already stiffening body.

With a faint smile she raised her head a little to kiss his lips.

"I recognize you, my son, and I awaken once more to bid you
farewell."

"No, mother, it is impossible, you cannot leave me!" said he, in
such loud and piercing tones that the mourning-women at the door
heard it and whispered to each other: "That was a good cry; we could
do no better ourselves."

"Son of my heart," whispered Khadra, and the mother employed her
last strength to force her cold lips to speak and to recall the
thoughts already struggling to take wing--" son of my Ibrahim, do
not grieve for me! I have been dying these many days, I have long
struggled with Death. He stood at the door ready to take me, but I
thrust him back that I might see my son, my darling, once more."

"O mother, mother! you are breaking my heart," cried Mohammed, and
his head sank heavily upon his mother's shoulder.

"Be brave, my son, I entreat you with my last breath! Be brave, be a
man, and consider my dream with the eye of your soul. Make it
reality! Make of the poor, disconsolate boy who stands here the hero
of the future, as I saw you in my visions in the nights before you
were born! I saw a crown on your head and a sword glittered in your
hand. And I see the future now, too; and I will tell you what I see,
my son: I see you, your son, and your grandson! They shall all wear
crowns, shall sit on one throne, and the nations shall lie in the
dust before them! My soul has returned to announce this to you."

"If your soul has returned," said he, in tones of earnest entreaty,
"then command it to remain with you! Life will be solitary and
desolate without you. You are the only woman I love. If you go, take
me with you, and tell the prophet, if he be angry, that I could be
of no use here on earth without you. Take me to my father and say to
him, the family shall be united in heaven as it never was on earth."

"No, you shall not go with me," said she, raising herself with a
last effort from the mat. "I command you to live! I shall go to your
father and bear him the greeting of our only son, and say to him,
'We shall not die, we shall live on in our son; he will make our
name great and glorious before the world!' But you I command to make
true what I shall tell him."

She sank back. Her head fell heavily on her pillow of dry leaves;
her breathing became short and painful, and her eyes again assumed
the vacant expression that had struck such terror to Mohammed's
soul.

"Mother, I entreat you, answer me once more! Do you hear me? Do you
love me?"

"I hear you," murmured the stiffening lips. "And do I love you? Your
mother's love struggled with Death for a whole year. He tried to
drag me hence, and I struggled with him day after day, and night
after night. Love helped me to deceive you, or you would have seen
your mother dying day by day. Now, I am going hence, and the
agathodaemon will give me new garments, and a new countenance full
of youth and beauty, that your father may see me as I looked in the
days of our youthful love. O my son, may the woman you are to love
be not far distant; may she soon wing her flight to you, the dove of
innocence, with the countenance of love and the fragrance of the
rose? May she open heaven unto you with her star-like eyes? This is
my last blessing, my son. Allah watch over you! Farewell!"

The words were soft and low, like the whispering of a departing
spirit. Mohammed had listened eagerly, his ear held close to her
lips, and he still listened when the light of his mother's eyes was
extinguished, and the hand of Death had swept over her countenance,
imparting to the white brow a yellow, and to the lips a blue tint.
Suddenly he shuddered, raised his head and looked at his mother. He
then uttered a shriek, a loud, fearful shriek, that caused the
mourning-women outside to bound to their feet, for they knew that it
was thus that survivors shriek when Death seizes his prey.

They now commence their mournings, and farther off other cries and
lamentations are heard. The latter are uttered by the friends of
Ibrahim Aga. They have placed themselves near the but to begin,
according to a religious custom, the service of the dead, as soon as
the soul shall have left the body.

They form a circle near the open door. Their arms crossed over their
breasts, they stand there, moving their heads continually from one
side to the other. "Allah il Allah!" they cry, and within stand the
women shrieking, yelling, and lamenting, over the deceased. They at
last arouse Mohammed, who had swooned away beside the body. He
springs to his feet, pushes back the women, and bounds into the
middle of the circle of men, who whirl around faster and faster;
they suppose he has come to join in their ceremony, but he pushes
them aside and rushes forth. He rushes so rapidly up the pathway
that no one can follow him, and no one attempts to do so.

His grief must exhaust itself, they say to each other.

"When it has done so, and evening comes, he will return." The
evening came, but Mohammed had not returned to perform the sacred
duty of watching over the dead through the night, as it became an
only son to do. The mourning women had departed to rest after their
exertions. They now returned, the sheik having ordered that they
should perform the night-watch in the absence of the son, in order
that the ghins might not enter and pronounce their curse over the
house, condemning the future generations, descending from the dead,
to misery.

The mourning-women remained the entire night, sometimes interrupting
their prayers, to say to each other that Mohammed, the only son, was
really a very unnatural child, and respected his mother very little,
or he would not be wandering about among the rocks, while his
mother's body was still unburied. Then they console themselves with
the thought that he will come in the morning, when the tomtom
resounds, which calls the people to the funeral.

The signal is heard on the following morning, and the men come
carrying in their crossed arms the Koran.

The sheik himself condescends to appear at Sitta Khadra's funeral.
She was an honest, virtuous woman, and is to be buried with honor
beside the grave of her husband, Ibrahim.

The mourners slowly assemble. The tomtom is still vainly summoning
the only son.

The body has been laid on two boards covered with woollen cloths,
and is borne out on the shoulders of four men. The mourning-women
yell and shriek, the men murmur prayers, and the drum resounds,
while the procession is slowly moving toward the place of burial.

Mohammed hears nothing of all this. He has fled to the cave, once
his paradise, now his hell. There he lies on his mat, looking up
through the opening in the rock at the heavens, and cursing the
ghins who have robbed him of his mother. But his agathodaemon will
intercede with Allah for his forgiveness for the despair which
causes his lips to utter curses of which his heart knows nothing.
The good spirits will intercede for the poor boy.

Driven out into the world alone. Poorer than the eagle's brood in
their nest overhead, that have tender parents to care for them. No
one cares for me.

The echo mournfully repeats the piercing cry that had resounded
throughout the cave, and says sadly: "No one, no one." He then sinks
down on his mat, and lies there motionless and insensible with grief
and horror.

Without, the sea murmurs gently, as if to sing a song of
consolation. He hears it not. All is now so still that the little
snakes and green lizards with their sparkling eyes venture forth
again from the hiding places to which they had fled when his
despairing voice reverberated through the cave. They creep up to the
dark, motionless mass that lies there on the ground. The sun sends
its rays through the opening in the rock, and throws a streak of
golden light across the prostrate body, and the little animals crawl
and rustle about to enjoy the sunshine.

A large rock-serpent has crawled from its lair and coiled itself
beside Mohammed; its eyes glitter in the sunlight like precious
stones.

"I will die--die " he suddenly cries out, and springs to his feet so
quickly that the serpents and lizards barely escape being trodden on
as they escape to their holes behind the rocks. "Here I will remain.
How often, in the past, have I longed to be in my cave, my only
secret, my only possession." Once, to gratify this longing, I came
here, and then turned back, and said to myself. He who cannot
practice self-denial, cannot enjoy! And now I have practiced it, and
yet I have not enjoyed. But now I will enjoy, will enjoy death, at
least. Yes, I am resolved," said he, with trembling lips." I will
remain here and enjoy death. What does this struggling from day to
day avail this dreaming of future glory? Each succeeding day is in
poverty and misery the same. I was a fool to dream of future glory.
Now I will die. Let others be happy! Let the slave, Osman Bey,
attain what the free Mohammed cannot attain. He is welcome to his
reward death is at the end of it all, for him, too!"

He looks, through the opening in the rock, at the heavens above him,
and then rises higher to look down at the sea also, as though he
wished to take leave of it in a last glance. He then lies down on
his mat again. "Yes, let the slave Osman achieve glory, the free
Mohammed prefers death."

And yet, against his will, he must still think of the slave who has
gone out into the world over the sea to the wondrous land of Egypt,
where the caliphs were once enthroned, where their tombs still
stand, and where the Mamelukes now rule in their stead. He still
dreams of this wondrous land, with its ancient cities, and thinks
that these may be the death dreams that are to lull him to his
eternal rest.

He is suddenly awakened from his dreams by a horrible sensation. It
is hunger, the hunger that rages within him. It is thirst that
parches his lips. The soul wishes to die, but the body calls the man
back to life, and appeals to him so loudly, so vehemently, that he
cannot but listen to its voice.

He resists with all his might. He will conquer. This miserable
hunger, this despicable thirst; he will not heed the pains that rend
his body, he will be strong, and a hero, in death at least.

Convulsively he clings to the rock as if to a support against the
allurements that strive to draw him out into life. But the voice of
the world appeals to him, in louder and louder tones, and fearful
are the torments he is undergoing.

The spirit must at last succumb to the demands of Nature. He rises
to give to the body what of right belongs to the body, nourishment,
drink and food.

He creeps to the entrance, and is so weak that he can hardly pass
through the opening, which he had formerly made still narrower, that
no one might discover it. He is so weak that he can scarcely stand
upright; his swollen lips are bleeding; his brain is burning, and he
sinks down upon a rock. A kindly voice now calls him. He hears it,
but lacks the strength to answer.

"Mohammed! Mohammed!" is heard again, and now the merchant, Lion,
approaches from behind a projecting rock. He had seen the boy, but
knowing his proud heart, and fearing to put him to shame by showing
himself, and saying that he came to his assistance, he had lingered
behind the rock.

He now kneels down beside the boy, bends over him, kisses his lips,
and whispers loving words in his ear.

"Poor child, Your mother, who loved you so tenderly, would weep
bitterly if she could see you in this condition. Poor boy, you must
strengthen yourself. I know you have eaten nothing, and I have
brought you food."

He drew a bottle from his pocket, and poured a little wine on his
lips. Mohammed tried to resist, but the body was stronger than the
will. He greedily swallows the wine, and, without knowing it, asks
for more. The merchant smiles approvingly, and pours a little more
on his lips, and then gives him a small piece of white bread that he
had brought with him, and rejoices when he sees Mohammed breathing
with renewed life.

"What are you doing?" he murmured. "I must die, that I may go to my
mother."

The merchant stooped down lower over the boy, and kissed him. "Your
mother, who loves you so dearly, sends you this kiss, through me.
She confided to me that she must die, and I promised her that I
would bring you a kiss from her whenever I saw you. With this kiss
she commands you to be brave and happy throughout life."

And, as he ceased speaking, he inclined his head and kissed him a
second time.

Now, as he receives this kiss from his mother, the tears suddenly
burst from his eyes and pour down his cheeks, hot tears, and yet
they cool and alleviate the burning pains of his soul.

"You weep," said the merchant, whose own cheeks were wet with grief.
"Weep on, pain must have its relief in tears, and even a man need
not be ashamed of them."

He sat down beside Mohammed, drew him close to his side, supporting
the boy's head on his bosom, and spoke to him of his dear mother.

"Nor are you poor, Mohammed. Your mother returned to me your love-
offering, together with other sums she had saved. I have fifty gold-
pieces for you. Yes, fifty glittering gold-pieces! You can now dress
better than formerly, until provision is made for your future; and,
if you should need advice or assistance, come to me. You know that I
am your friend. And now, be happy and courageous; remember that poor
Sitta Khadra has suffered much, and let her be at rest now. Another
friend is awaiting you above on the rock; will you go up to him?"

"It is Osman, is it not?" asked Mohammed, as be dried his eyes. "Am
I not right?"

The merchant inclined his head. "He could not come down the steep
path, or he would be here now."

"I will go to him; I know he loves me. He will not laugh when he
sees that I have been weeping."

No, Osman did not laugh. When he saw his friend coming, he advanced
to meet him with extended arms, and they embraced each other
tenderly, tears standing in the eyes of both.

All was still; nothing could be heard but the murmur of the sea, and
the rustling of the wind.

The merchant, who had at first stood in silence beside the two, now
walked noiselessly away.

They love each other, and what they have to say, no one else should
hear.

Mohammed stands up and dries his eyes; he wishes to be composed.
Osman holds out his hand:

"Your mother is dead, but she survives in your friends, and your
mother and your friend now extend the hand to you. Mohammed, come
with me to my house, for my house is yours, too. I will not have you
remain alone; you must come with me."

Mohammed shook his head gravely. "It cannot be--I will not become a
slave!"

"Come, out of love for me. Not as my slave, but as my friend. Oh, I
am so lonely, and you are the only one who loves, and can console,
poor, sickly Osman."

"I will come to you!" exclaimed Mohammed, drawing his friend to his
bosom. "Even as a slave would I come, for I should be my friend's
slave. I will come to you."




CHAPTER X

COUSROUF PACHA.


THE days had passed quietly and monotonously for Mohammed since the
death of his mother.

To climb among the rocks with his gun in stormy weather, to cross
over in his boat to Imbra, after the fishermen's nets and fish, and
to tame the young Arabian steeds of the tschorbadji that had as yet
known no bridle, these were now Mohammed's chief pursuits and
pleasures, and in them he engaged with passionate ardor when at
leisure, that is, when not with his friend Osman Bey.

That which they had vowed to each other after the death of
Mohammed's mother, they had kept-true and firm friendship, brotherly
and confidential intercourse. With one wish only of young Osman, had
Mohammed not complied: he had not gone to live with him in the
proud, governmental building-had refused to share his friend's
luxury and magnificence, and to allow his poverty to be put to shame
by the benefits which he would have been compelled to accept.

The hut, inherited from his parents, he retained as his own
dwelling. In it nothing had been changed; the mat on which his
mother had died was now his bed. In the pitcher out of which she had
drunk, he each morning brought fresh water from the spring, and all
the articles she had used, poor and miserable as they were, now
constituted the furniture of his hut.

In vain had Osman continually renewed his entreaties: "Come to me.
Live with me; not for your own sake, Mohammed. I know that you
despise luxury, and that the splendor that surrounds us is offensive
to you. Not for your own, but for my sake, Mohammed, come to me and
live with us. My father is so anxious to have you do so, for he
knows that your presence is the best medicine for me. I feel so well
and strong when I look at you, Mohammed; and, when you sometimes
yield to my entreaties and spend the night with me in my room, it
seems to me I sleep better, for I know that my friend is watching
over me. Stay with me, Mohammed!"

These soft entreaties, accompanied by tender looks, touched
Mohammed, but they could not shake his resolution.

"I cannot and dare not accept, Osman. It would make me unhappy; I
should feel myself under too much restraint; I must, above all,
preserve the consciousness of being perfectly free and independent.
I must feel that I can leave when I choose, and for this very reason
is it so sweet to remain--to be with you, unfettered for your sake
only, Osman. If I should come and live with you in the palace of the
tschorbadji, do you not think I should be an object of dislike to
your slaves and servants; that they would point at me when I passed,
and whisper: 'How proud and insolent he is, and yet he is less than
I! We are the slaves of our master, and repay with our work the
money he spends on our account. But what is he? A proud beggar
supported by charity, who has the impudence to give himself the airs
of a gentleman.' Your slaves would say this of me, and mock me with
my beggar pride. But, as it is, I am free, and my clothing is my
own. It is certainly not as handsome as yours, the caftan not
embroidered, the shawl not of Persian make, and the kuffei around my
fez not inworked with gold. But yet it is my own, and it pleases me
to be thus plainly dressed, as it becomes the son of Ibrahim Aga. I
live as it becomes me; my hut is dark and poor--but it is mine, and
in it I am a free man. I do not sleep on soft cushions; a plain mat
is my bed, but on this mat my mother reposed, and on it she died. To
me it is sacred. I pray to my mother each night, Osman, and I greet
her each morning when I drink out of the wooden cup so often touched
by her lips. I should have to give up all this, and come here to
repose in splendid apartments, sleep on silken mattresses, and allow
myself to be waited on by slaves who do not belong to me. No, Osman,
do not demand this; let me come to you each day, of my own free-will
and love."

He extended his hand to his friend, who, as usual, lay reclining on
his couch, and Osman pressed it warmly in his own.

"You are a proud boy," said he, in low tones, "and though your
refusal gives me pain, I can still understand that in your sense you
are right, Mohammed. In short, you do not wish to be grateful to
anybody."

"And yet I am grateful to you, Osman," said Mohammed, regarding him
tenderly; "all my heart is full of gratitude and love for you; but
how much do I owe to you! Is it not for your sake that your father,
the proud tschorbadji, is so kind and friendly to me? Does he not
allow me, the lowly born, to sit with him at his table, and treat me
as his equal?"

"Because he well knows that you would otherwise never come to me
again," said Osman, with a sad smile. "He is careful not to hurt or
offend you in any way, for, as you know, my father loves me very
dearly, and it would give him pain to deprive me of the only friend
I possess. My father knows that you are my benefactor, and that I
live from your life, Mohammed. Look at me wonderingly, if you will;
I am a sick child, and shall remain one, although years have made me
a youth. And let me tell you, Mohammed, I shall never become a
strong, healthy man. I have very weak lungs, inherited from my
mother, and if it were not for you, if I had not been sustained by
your healthy and vigorous mind and disposition, I should have died
long since. Therefore, do not say that you have cause to be grateful
to me. My father and I both have cause to be grateful to you, for my
father loves me and rejoices in my life; and I, too, am very glad to
live. The sun is so beautiful, it is so delightful to look at the
deep-blue sky, the flowers are so fragrant, and finally it is such a
pleasure to see you and to rejoice in your vigorous mind. I
therefore owe every thing to you, Mohammed, and father and I know
this, and are very thankful."

"Those are sweet words, Osman," said Mohammed, bestowing an
affectionate look on his friend. "You are so noble and generous,
that you wish to make it appear that all the benefits I have
received from you were bestowed by me. But Allah knows that I am
profoundly grateful, and I am aware, too, that I have cause to be.
Only consider, that to you and your father I owe all that I know.
Have I not been allowed to share the instruction given you? Has not
the scha-er, whom your father, as his narratives pleased us so much,
kept here at a heavy expense, instructed me, too, and taught us both
the history of our own and of all other countries? Have I not had
the same opportunities as yourself of learning of all that is going
on out in the world? Did I not share your instruction in all other
branches? Have not the poems of our land been read to us, and have
we not learned to understand the Koran, and receive into our souls
the wise teachings of the prophet Mahommed? Have we not also learned
the difficult science of algebra, and are we not familiar with the
laws of justice? Do I not owe it entirely to the instruction which I
have shared with you that I can also read the Koran and the books of
the prophets and poets? Ah, Osman, I still remember with shame how I
was sorrowfully compelled to confess to our teacher in our first
lessons, that I knew and understood nothing; that I could not read,
and did not even know the letters and figures."

"And how rapidly you learned all this!" said Osman. "It surprised
everybody, and I assure you the scha-rer is always charmed when he
speaks of you, and he listens admiringly to what you say after the
lessons are over. Yes, the scha-rer says, if you only would you
could become one of the greatest of scholars, so rapid has been your
progress; but-"

"But one thing I have not learned", said Mohammed, interrupting him
with a smile". You were about to begin the old story, were you not,
Osman? 'But you never would learn to write,' you were about to say."

"Yes, that is what I intended to say, my friend, and this one thing
you must still learn: to use the pen and write down your thoughts on
paper."

"I cannot", cried Mohammed, impatiently; "my hands are too rough.
The oar and the gun have made my fingers so stiff that I cannot use
the pen."

"Then let it be so. I will torment you about it no longer." said
Osman, with a sigh. "You are my head and I am your hand. You think
for me, and I shall write for you. So shall it be throughout our
entire lives, for together we two must remain, and nothing can
separate us. Is it not so, my friend? Say it, and say it often, that
nothing can separate us. For you must know that if fate should tear
you from me it would kill me, and that you cannot intend: therefore,
we shall ever remain together, shall we not?"

"We shall ever remain together," said Mohammed. "That is Osman,
consider well what you are saying, for you are nearly eighteen years
old."

"As you are," responded Osman, smiling.

"Only with this difference, that your father will give you with your
eighteenth year, a beautiful aristocratic lady to wife, and
establish a harem for you; while Mohammed Ali will never have either
a sweetheart or a harem, but will always remain alone and unwedded."

"Who knows?" replied Osman, laughing. "Those who assure us they will
never love, says the poet, are the one's that fall in love soonest.
One is easily surprised by the enemy who is not feared, and against
whose snares the heart is not on its guard . . . This will be your
fate, Mohammed. Your heart is not on its guard, and does not fear
the enemy, love . . . But my poor heart has no cause to fear and be
on its guard; let me repeat it, Mohammed; look at me. Can the poor,
pale youth, with his wan countenance, his sunken breast, and his
weak breath can he think of marrying? Or do you suppose I would care
to become a subject of jest in the harem to the female slaves and
servants, who would have to wait on the sick man? True, the
tschorbadji, my father, has sometimes spoken of giving me an
establishment of my own with my eighteenth year. I remained silent,
for fortunately it is at present impossible. My establishment was to
have been above in the upper saloons, and fortunately Cousrouf Pacha
with his harem is still in possession of that part of our house. May
he long remain there! I do not wish it on his account, or because I
love him, but solely because my father must now delay the execution
of this plan. May Cousrouf Pacha, therefore, long remain!"

"I do not wish it," said Mohammed, gloomily; "he is a hard, proud
man, better in his own estimation than anybody here in Cavalla,
better even than the tschorbadji. I never saw a prouder man. And
what right has he to be so? Has he not fallen into disgrace with the
sultan? Did he not come here because he was banished from Stamboul?
And do you know why he was banished? I will tell you: because--so
have strangers who have come here reported, because he sought the
death of his benefactor and master, the grand admiral, Hussein
Pacha, in order that he might put himself in his place. Isn't this
horrible, Osman? The grand-admiral had bought him as a slave, and
then, because he loved him; made him free, and a wealthy man; he had
him instructed, and persuaded the sultan to appoint him bey and
pasha; and in return for all this, Cousrouf Pacha attempted to
poison his faithful master and benefactor, and calumniated him to
the grand sultan. Isn't this horrible?"

"It certainly would be if it were true," said Osman; "yet I do not
believe it. Much is told and said of the great and mighty, and they
are often calumniated and accused of evil deeds which they have not
committed. If it were so, do you not suppose the grand-admiral,
Hussein Pacha, the mighty man, and the grand-sultan, would have
punished him as he deserved? No, my father says differently, and has
received from Stamboul other and more reliable information. Cousrouf
Pasha has fallen into disgrace--that is a fixed fact--and the sultan
has sent him into exile. Yet he did so against the wish of the
Grand-Admiral Hussein. Do you know why? Consrouf has fallen into
disgrace? Because he refused to go to Egypt as pacha, declaring that
was equivalent to sending him into an open grave, as he should never
return home from that land of rebels and Mamelukes. The sultan
wished to send him to Egypt because he suspected him of having a
secret amorous intrigue with one of the sultanas. The sultan had
been told that Cousrouf Pacha was in the habit of being secretly
conducted to the sultana's chamber at night by a female slave. As
the sultan stealthily approached and opened the door of the chamber,
he heard a rustling and whispering, but was so dark in the room that
he could see nothing. He called slaves with torches to his
assistance. They searched the room, but found nothing. The sultana
stood on the balcony looking out into the starlit night. She met her
husband with a smiling countenance, saying the night was so
beautiful, she had gone out to gaze at the stars. The sultan, it is
said, gnashed his teeth with rage, but kept silence, as it would
have been unworthy of his dignity to threaten where he could not
also punish. On the following morning he sent Cousrouf Pacha into
exile to this place, my father tells me. But it is thought the
sultan's anger will soon expend itself, and that his friend the
grand-admiral, Hussein Pacha, will succeed in restoring his favorite
to honor. Cousrouf Pacha, my father says, is already heartily tired
of his tedious sojourn here, and has written to Hussein Pacha that
he is now ready to go to Egypt as pacha."

"Ready to revel in the glories of the world! Truly this great
Cousrouf Pacha is very condescending, "cried Mohammed, in derisive
tones. "He acts as though he were conferring a favor in accepting
that for which another would give his heart's blood."

"Would you, Mohammed? " asked Osman, smiling.

"I would give my blood, drop by drop, only retaining enough to
sustain life. Oh, to live there, to go to Egypt as the grand-
sultan's pacha, to rule in that beautiful land, to make the rebels,
the Mamelukes, and the beys, bow down in the dust. To vanquish them
all, Osman, this is my dream of bliss, this is but no, I am still
the same foolish boy, dreaming of impossibilities. See, there come
those of whom we have been speaking," raising his hand and pointing
to the hallway. "There comes the tschorbadji with Cousrouf Pacha.
Let me go now, Osman, it is unpleasant to be in the vicinity of this
haughty man; my heart always fiercely resents his insolence. Let me
go!"

Osman held him back. "See, they are looking at us, Mohammed. If you
should go now, it would look as though you desired to avoid my
father also, and that you assuredly do not wish. Moreover, the
haughty gentleman might think that respect for him made you run
away, as the lizard flees before the footstep of man. Stay!"

"You are right," said Mohammed, "I shall stay."

He straightened himself up, threw his head back proudly, folded his
arms on his breast, and stood beside his friend's couch, gazing
composedly at the two gentlemen who were advancing toward them,
followed by a number of slaves.

As they came nearer, the tschorbadji stepped hastily forward to
greet his son with loving, tender words. Mohammed inclined his head
with profound reverence before the father of his beloved friend. He
then raised his head again, and firmly met the glance of the haughty
Cousrouf Pacha, without any manifestation of deference whatever. The
latter stepped forward, and greeted Osman with friendly words; he
then turned, and fixed his dark-gray eyes on the young man who stood
beside him, awaiting his deferential salutation.

But Mohammed did not salute him. He still stood erect, his arms
folded on his breast, beside his friend's couch.

The pacha slowly turned to the governor. "Tell me, tschorbadji, who
is this person? Your slave, is he not?"

"No," cried Osman, rising partially from his couch, and anticipating
his father's reply. "No, your excellency, he is not our slave, but
my friend, my beloved friend, Mohammed Ali."

"Your friend! A great honor for such a lad, too great an honor, I
should think," said Cousrouf Pacha, directing a fierce glance at
Mohammed, who still stood erect beside him.

"Why should your excellency think so?" asked he in sharp, almost
threatening tones. "Why is it too great an honor that the son of the
tschorbadji calls me his friend? Has it not occurred that
aristocratic gentlemen have elevated to an equality with themselves,
and made friends even of, slaves, and purchased boys? I remember
hearing the scha-er tell of a Circassian slave whom the grand-
admiral, at Stamboul, purchased, and subsequently called his friend.
He was not ashamed of him, although the lad called Cousrouf was,
after all, only a slave."

"In the name of Allah, I pray you, be still!" cried the tschorbadji,
looking anxiously at Mohammed.

"And why should he be still?" asked Cousrouf, in cold, cutting
tones. "He is merely telling a story learned from the scha-er. You
know, tschorbadji, it is customary to pay story-tellers, and give
them a piaster.--Here, take your pay, you little scha-er."

The pacha drew from his silken purse, filled with gold-pieces, a
ducat, and threw it at the boy's feet.

Mohammed uttered a cry of rage, and took up the gold-piece as though
he intended to throw it in the pacha's face. But Osman held his
hand, and begged him in a low voice to be composed.

Mohammed struggled to compose himself. His face was pale, his lips
trembled, and his eyes gleamed with wrath and hatred, as he glanced
at the pacha; then his countenance became firm and composed. He
beckoned to a slave who stood at a distance, to approach, and threw
him the gold-piece. "The slave gives the slave his reward. Take it,
thou slave!"

A moment of silence and anxious suspense intervened, and then
Mohammed's and the pacha's eyes met again in a fierce, piercing
glance. The pacha then turned, and addressed the tschorbadji:

"If he were my servant," said he, "I should have him taken out to
the court-yard for his insolence. If he there received, as he richly
deserves, the bastinado, I think he would soon become humble and
quiet. The viper bites no longer when its fangs are extracted.--I
tell you, tschorbadji, if he were my servant, he should now receive
the bastinado."

"And if you were my servant," exclaimed Mohammed, haughtily, "I
should treat you in precisely the same manner, sir. The bastinado is
very painful, I am told, and you probably know it by personal
experience. But this you should know, too, sir, that here on the
peninsula of Contessa, slaves only are chastised, and slaves only
receive the bastinado. I, however, have never been a slave, but
always a free man; and what I am and shall be, I am, I am proud to
say, through myself alone. I have not been bought and bargained for,
and I sleep better in my dark little but than others who were once
slaves, and who, having risen through the favor of their masters,
now repose on silken couches."

"Tschorbadji Hassan!" cried Cousrouf, pale with anger, and hardly
capable of restraining himself from striking the bold youth in the
face with his own fist--"Tschorbadji Hassan, you shall punish the
insolence of this servant who dares to insult me, Cousrouf Pacha. I
demand of you punishment for this insolence."

"I have broken no law, and there is no law that condemns me to
punishment," said Mohammed, firmly and composedly. "Your excellency
does me the honor to dispute with me, that is all. With us
punishment is meted out according to the law only, and not at the
pleasure of every grand gentleman."

The tschorbadji stepped up to Cousrouf Pacha, and earnestly conjured
him to show mercy to his son's friend, for his sake.

"Consider that Osman is my only child, and my only happiness.
Consider that he loves Mohammed as if he were a brother. The
physicians say he would die if separated from Mohammed. Be merciful,
and forgive the insolence provoked by your own overbearing words. I
entreat you to be merciful, and to come away with me."

He took Cousrouf's arm in his own, and drew him away, almost
forcibly entreating him, with all the anxiety of a father's heart,
to forgive the uncultured youth, who knew nothing of becoming
deportment and polished manners. He was an untamed lion, unfamiliar
with the gentle ways of the domestic animals.

"And yet I wish I had this young lion in my power," said Cousrouf,
gnashing his teeth with rage, as he followed the governor. "I should
extract his teeth, and prove to the monster that he was not a lion,
but only a miserable cat, to be trodden under my feet!"

The tschorbadji drew him away more rapidly, that Mohammed might not
hear him. He had looked back and perceived that Mohammed was
standing still, gazing at them with a threatening eye, and, in
reality with the bearing of a lion prepared for the deadly spring.

When they had disappeared, Osman rose from his cushions, stood up,
threw his arms around his friend's neck, and kissed his quivering
lips.

"I thank you, my hero, my king, my lion! You stood there like David
before Goliath, and overthrew him in the dust. You made the insolent
giant small, you hero. I thank you, my Mohammed!"




CHAPTER XI

THE REVOLT.


The great square which lay in the centre of the village of Praousta
resounded with wild outcries and clamorings. All the men of the
place had assembled by the sea shore; they were generally honest,
peaceful sailors, but today they were raging rebels roused to revolt
against those in authority, and refusing obedience to the
tschorbadji.

Two pale, trembling men stood in the midst of the revolting crowd.
They were evidently Turks, by their closely-fitting uniforms, and
the scarlet fez on their heads; the short arms which hung at their
sides showed them to be the kavassen, or the collectors of the
tschorbadji.

These collectors were always an abomination to the people of
Praousta; they greeted them constantly with murmuring when they came
to collect the taxes, and often, before now, the appeasing,
tranquillizing words of the sheik had alone secured the payment of
the sums demanded. Today, however, their long-restrained indignation
had broken forth. Today, although the sea was so still and peaceful,
no one had gone out to fish, for it had been fully determined that
on this day they would refuse the demands of the governor's
collectors. The collectors had gone to the village, suspecting
nothing. The assessment had been brought by one of them several days
before to the sheik, who had received it with a very troubled
countenance.

"A double tax? " he had said; "that will be most unwelcome to the
men of Praousta."

The messenger of the tschorbadji merely shrugged his shoulders.
"They will pay it, nevertheless, as the men in Cavalla and other
places have done. The money must be collected." Then, with the
haughty bearing which, the officials of the tschorbadji always
assumed, he retired.

The sheik called together a council of the oldest men of the village
and the ulemas, and informed them that the tschorbadji was compelled
to lay a double tax on them at this time because, although his own
expenses had been greater, he was obliged to forward the usual
amount to Stamboul. New roads had been built; besides that, the
tobacco-crop had failed, and new public buildings had been erected.
All these expenses must be met, as well as the full amount for
Stamboul, which must on no account be lessened.

The men had declared at once, with angry words, that they would
never pay the tax. On the morning of the day when the two collectors
came from Cavalla, the men of the village assembled in the square as
they had determined to do, and greeted them with loud and angry
clamorings.

"We will pay no double tax," cried Abdallah, the leader of the
fishermen. "It is quite enough that we are obliged to pay any tax.
What do the grand-sultan and his ministers do for us? Not one of
them aids us when our crops fail or when we suffer from other
misfortunes. When we have double crops, must we not always pay a
double tax? But this year we have not even good crops. Our tobacco-
crops have failed; our fishing-nets, with all the fish we had taken,
have been lost in the storms. Tell us, then, for what reasons we
must pay a double tax?"

"The reasons, my dear fishermen," said the collectors--"the reasons
are, that the tschorbadji commands it, and his commands must be
obeyed, because the grand-sultan has made him your governor."

"If those were reasons," shrieked the fishermen, "the tschorbadji
could drive us from our huts, and take from us all that is ours.
Those are no reasons; no, we will not pay the tax!"

"You must, and you will!" cried the second officer.

That was the signal for all the men to draw their knives with
lightning-speed from their belts. They brandished them in their
fists, pressing from all sides upon the two officers, and swearing
to kill them if they did not go at once to Cavalla and announce what
had occurred here.

Some of the men rushed off to the dwelling of the sheik, while
others hastened to bring the ulemas to the square.

"Are we to pay the double tax, sheik? Speak for us; tell the
officers what answer they must take to the tschorbadji."

The sheik bowed kindly on every side as he made his way through the
circle of armed men. All was profound silence as he came before the
two officers, and all present listened in breathless silence to his
words.

"Lo, ye servants of justice!" exclaimed the sheik in a solemn voice,
"I say, go up to the city, and inform the tschorbadji that he has
demanded more than is just of the men of Praousta."

An overwhelming, thundering huzza interrupted the sheik.

"Speak on," was then the cry. "Let us hear what the good sheik has
to say to us!"

Once more there was breathless silence, and the sheik proceeded in
solemn tones:

"State to the tschorbadji that, by the will of Allah, we have been
pursued by storms and misfortunes. We submit to the will of Allah,
and pray to the prophet, to implore him to be merciful to us. If he
hears our prayers, and the next harvest is blessed, and the fish are
plentiful in our nets, and if then the purses of the people of
Praousta are again filled, they will gladly pay the tschorbadji the
accustomed tax, but not a double tax."

"No, not a double tax!" shrieked the men. "We must pay, that the
tschorbadji may live in pride and splendor with his aristocratic
guest, who keeps a harem, and has himself borne about in a
palanquin, or rides a splendid horse through the streets, while we
have to content ourselves with humbly walking. No, we pay no more
for the tschorbadji and his aristocratic guest. Long live our sheik,
who stands by us! Go up, officers, and deliver the message he has
given you."

The officers, frightened and trembling, were well pleased to escape
unharmed from the raging crowd. They passed hurriedly through the
narrow passage which was opened for them on the way toward Cavalla.

"Long live our sheik! Allah be praised for him!" cried the men,
raising him and the three ulemas, in their enthusiasm, on their
shoulders, and carrying them to their dwellings.

"You stood by us, 0 sheik, and we wish to thank you," said Abdallah,
speaking for all, when they had put the sheik down before his house.

"I stand by you," answered the sheik, giving his hand to all, "but
you must stand by each other. We have held a council through the
entire night, and we have concluded that the demand is unjust, and
have therefore, in the name of the people, declined to meet it. Now,
however, you must not be intimidated; you must be firm. Then no one
will dare to molest us."

"We will be firm in what we have determined, and not give way,"
cried they all. "Long live the sheik and the ulemas!"

"Now return quietly to your houses, and wait to see what the
tschorbadji will do," said the sheik. "We shall see if he is content
with your refusal."

The men obeyed the order of the sheik, and went to their huts, to
await there the next movement.

The two officers returned, with rapid steps, to Cavalla.

The governor was seated in the hall, with his favorite, his Osman,
by whose side was Mohammed, who had yielded to the entreaties of his
friend, and spent the last few months with him.

Osman considered it a great kindness that Mohammed had, at last,
agreed to his wishes, and had remained with him at night. When the
governor looked joyfully at his son, and said he had never seen him
so gay and happy, Osman smiled and nodded toward Mohammed. "You
should thank Mohammed; as long as he remains in our house, the air
seems purer and fresher to me. He alone understands how to make me
well, and, if I could always have him with me, I would be the
happiest of men."

The tschorbadji offered his hand to Mohammed, bowing and smiling
kindly. "Mohammed, I wish you would, at last, yield to the united
prayers of my son and myself, and would consent to live in this
house. Let me have two sons, and I shall be doubly rich."

"In veneration I will be your son," replied Mohammed, pressing the
governor's hand to his brow; "I will obey you in all things! One
thing alone do not demand--that I shall irrevocably relinquish my
freedom. Let me come and go at my pleasure. Love always draws me
back to my Osman, even when, in the restlessness of my heart, I
wander on the sea, or in the mountains, or remain solitary in my
silent hut. Friendship for you has bound chains about my soul, and I
must always return. Leave to me the feeling of independence, or I
shall not be happy."

Osman nodded smilingly to him. "It shall be as you wish, and we will
never weary him again, my father, with our prayers. He will return
to us, he says, and Mohammed always keeps his word. But look, father
what can be the matter with these two officers who are hurrying
toward us?"

"They seem to have met with some misfortune; they look pale and
excited, and are coming here without being announced," he said,
rising from his cushions, and beckoning to the collectors, who had
remained respectfully standing at the entrance, to come forward.--
"Well, what is the matter? You look as disturbed as if something
dreadful had happened to you!"

"Yes, governor, something dreadful has happened," they answered,
bowing deeply. "We have been down to Praousta, as your excellency
ordered, to collect the double tax."

"And you have brought the gold with you, and given it to my
treasurer?"

"No, we have not brought it."

"Not brought it!" exclaimed the tschorbadji, with the utmost
astonishment; "I send you to collect the taxes, and you return
without the money. Have thieves fallen upon you, and robbed you? My
collectors have allowed the gold to be taken from them, and now dare
to appear, empty-handed, before me!"

"O governor, we are innocent," replied the men. "No thieves took the
money from us, but the men of Praousta have revolted; they have
assembled together in the market place, and have solemnly declared
that they will never pay the double tax!"

While they were making their report, Mohammed sprung from his seat,
and listened breathlessly to them.

"They refused to pay the tax," said the tschorb

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