"To whom shall I give it, then?" asked the astonished merchant. "I dare not offer it to Mohammed; I believe it would make him so angry that he would raise his hand against me. You must not tell him, Sitta Khadra, that you have brought me back the goods."
"You are right, sir; I should not like to cause him this unhappiness. I shall tell him I have taken the goods to the tailor to have it made into a dress by the next Bairam's festival. But when the festival comes, I shall no longer be here, and he will not see that I have not put on the costly dress."
"You will not be here, Sitta Khadra? Then where will you be?" asked the merchant.
She slowly raised her arm, and pointed upward.
"Up there, sir, with my beloved master, Ibrahim Aga; I shall see the glory of Allah, and shall see the prophet, the great prophet to whom my heart-felt prayers so often ascend."
"What is it you are saying, good Sitta? At the next Bairam's festival, you will surely still be with us on earth."
She slowly shook her head.
"I am dying, sir. I have been dying for the last two days look at my lips."
"They are red and fresh, and show that you are in health, Sitta
Khadra."
"Yea, my lips are red, because I have colored them with henna, that Mohammed may not see how pale they are. For him I have colored my cheeks, too. Good sir, one may deceive out of love, and Allah will forgive me for having made my face a lie out of love for my son. I tell you I am dying; therefore have I come to bring you the goods, and to beg you to take the money and keep it. When he is in want give it to him, and tell him Mother Khadra sends it with her best blessing, and that he must accept it as a present from me, and make a good use of it. I know, sir, that you will give it to him, and that you will watch over him that you may know when he needs it.
"And one thing more I beg of you, whenever you see my beloved son, say to him: —Mohammed Ali, your mother Khadra, loved you very dearly, and sends you a greeting from Heaven, through me. She dwells, above with your father, Ibrahim Aga, and both are looking down upon you, and observing your actions. Therefore be thoughtful, Mohammed, to walk pure and free in the sight of Allah and your parents. Promise me, that you will often say this to my son."
"I promise, Sitta Khadra," said the merchant, solemnly. "I promise you that I will watch over your dear son, and that, if it is in my power, I will at all times be ready to lend him a helping hand. I give you my hand to seal this promise, Sitta Khadra."
She took his hand, and the merchant knew by the heat of her thin, wan fingers that a burning fever was in her blood, and that Death had kissed her lips.
"Now, all is well," said she, as she rose to her feet with a painful effort. "Now I will return home, that my darling, my Mohammed, may find me when he comes. I have but a few more days to live, and I would not lose a moment that I can spend with him. Farewell! Allah be with you!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE FRIENDS.
In the house of the governor every thing was changed since the day on which the grand-vizier had taken up his abode in the upper saloons. Young Osman, the son of the tschorbadji, experienced this change with great displeasure.
Since the stranger's harem had been installed in the side-building, whose windows open on the garden, the governor's son can no longer walk freely in all parts of the beautiful park and enjoy its solitude without fear of interruption. By far the greater portion of the park has been set apart for the use of the harem, and only a small portion adjoining the courtyard is reserved for him.
"And yet fresh air and the sunshine are my only enjoyments," said he, complainingly, to Mohammed Ali, who had come the next day, according to promise, to repeat to young Osman what the scha-er had spoken, to narrate to him the wondrous stories of the Mamelukes.
He lay reclining on a mat in front of young Osman's couch, and in excited words, with glowing eyes, he told the heroic stories of the proudest people of Egypt.
Osman's large eyes were fixed on his face in an earnest gaze, and a slight color tinged his pale cheeks as he listened.
"Beautiful, is it not?" asked Mohammed, as he finished his narrative. "Would not you, too, like to go to the land where, as the scha-er says, slaves become heroes, and heroes princes?'
Osman shook his head gently.
"I do not know, Mohammed. I should be contented, I think, to remain here, reclining on my cushions, the sun above me, and you at my side."
"But what I have related is beautiful, is it not?"
"I do not know," replied Osman, for the second time. "I regarded you while you were speaking, and I rejoiced in you. It seems to me, Mohammed, as though you were the better part of myself. I feel as you feel, and think as you think, and rejoice when I hear you utter in fresh and glowing words that which my lips can utter with timidity and hesitation only. If I were healthy, Mohammed, I should be, I think, as you are. Therefore, whenever I look at you, it seems to me I see myself as I might be, but am not."
"You will be yourself, again," said Mohammed, tenderly. "When you have become strong again, no one will be able to compete with you in manly exercises, and like all the other boys I shall have to bow my head humbly before you, and shall have to pay you the tribute as they pay it to me."
In reply, Osman merely raised his pale, transparent hand and showed it to Mohammed.
"Look at this pare, colorless hand. A poor, withered flower, good for nothing except to press the hand of a friend, but a hand that can never wield the sword or battle with the unruly waves as yours can. No, Mohammed! I shall perhaps have health enough to live like the flower or the blade of grass, but not to live like the eagle, like the steed, like Mohammed Ali! But I will not complain. I am contented; every one has his portion of happiness on earth; mine is, to lie on the purple in the sunshine, and to hear my Mohammed tell stories. But I entreat you to come very often," he continued, with a sigh. "They have now curtailed my little earthly happiness; since this Turk has come with his harem and his glittering suite, I am very miserable. I know that my father feels it, too, and often wishes his distinguished guest had taken his departure."
"Will he remain long, Osman?"
"That depends on whether his sun shines again in Stamboul," said young Osman, shrugging his shoulders. "I must tell you, Mohammed, there are peculiar circumstances connected with this gentleman. He has fallen into disfavor, and is waiting here to see whether his sun will shine again or not. He has been sent into exile, and it was really intended that he should go to Egypt, where the Mamelukes of whom you have just been relating such heroic stories, have again risen in wild insurrection against the Turkish governor, and Cousrouf Pacha is lying in wait here because he has good friends in Stamboul who are working for him, and because he hopes to be able to return to the beautiful capital where he can revel in luxury; whereas, if he should go to Egypt, he would be compelled to draw the sword and march out to bloody battle."
"I hate him—the coward!" exclaimed Mohammed. "I despise men who prefer eating sugar with women in the harem, to mounting their steeds and taking the field against the enemy, sword in hand."
"That will never be your preference," said Osman, regarding him tenderly.
"No, never," protested the boy. "Women are good playthings for hours of leisure, when a man has nothing better to do. But to revel, like Cousrouf, in luxury—to hide himself while he might be attempting deeds of heroism—to be dallying with women instead of mowing off the heads of his enemies, that I cannot comprehend. It is repulsive to me to think of a man's surrounding himself with women, and taking delight in their caresses and soft words."
"It suits Cousrouf very well!" said Osman, smiling. "He spends the greater part of his time in the harem. Singing, music, and rejoicing, are the order of the day there. Black female slaves fan him with fans made of peacock-feathers; others, on their knees, fill his chibouque, while he reclines on his cushions, smoking and dreamily gazing at the beautifully-attired female slaves who dance before him."
"And he," said Mohammed, "he, the vain man, imagines that they dance and remain in his harem out of love for him!
"I suppose they make him think so. They say a woman's lips make a lie sweet, and that her face always wears a mask! And yet" he continued, looking dreamily toward the harem, "I must tell you, Mohammed, I sometimes think I should be happy, too, and less tormented with ennui, if one of these houris of paradise sat at my side, chastely veiled, regarding me lovingly and I could look through the white veil at the smile on her lips. Ah, Mohammed, we, who are not made to become heroes, feel an irresistible longing after love, and the sweet delight of being loved. You, of course, cannot understand this."
"No, I cannot," cried Mohammed, with a contemptuous smile. "I shall never bow my head beneath the yoke of female slaves, with their beautiful almond-shaped eyes and purple lips. I shall consider all women as playthings, with the exception of my mother," said he, bowing his head with profound reverence. "Allah forgive me for speaking ill of women, for our mothers are women, Osman! Forgive me my pride and folly. I speak only of the light-footed slaves, with the deceiving smile and the false eyes."
"And who knows,' said Osman, smiling, "but that my Mohammed, who speaks of these fetters so derisively, may not some day be vanquished? Do not set your face against it, Mohammed. Remember that even the heart of the great prophet glowed with love, and that it was he who peopled paradise with houris, and promised it, as the highest bliss, that beautiful women should there kneel down before the blessed spirits, gently stroke their feet, and look at them lovingly with their lustrous, gazelle-like eyes. Therefore, do not say, Mohammed, that your heart shall never be accessible to love! Yours is a true, manly heart, and a manly heart must love. You see, Mohammed, I am hardly a man, and shall probably never become one, and therefore I do not believe that love will ever hold me in its golden net; I shall love nothing but my best, my only friend."
"And will you tell me his name, Osman? " asked Mohammed, bending down closely to him. Passionately, almost threateningly, he repeated: "Will you tell me the name of this, your beloved, your only friend?"
Osman, smiled, took from a cushion an oval mirror, framed in mother- of-pearl, with a golden handle, and held it before Mohammed. "Look at yourself, and you will know his name."
Looking, not at the mirror, but earnestly into his friend's eyes,
Mohammed stooped down and kissed Osman's lips.
"Listen, Osman, to what I say! I am almost ashamed to confess it, and yet it is true, next to my mother I love you best on earth, and I believe I could sacrifice my life for you."
"And I mine for you," said Osman, gently.
"Let us swear to be true friends forever," continued Mohammed.
"Here is my hand! Eternal friendship! If you need me, Osman, call me, and, were I ever so distant, I would come to you. When in want, or when cast down by sorrow and suffering, I will complain to no one but you. What my lips will confess to no one else, they shall confess to Osman. Shall it be so? Friendship for life?"
"Yes, life-long friendship!' said Osman. "Men need not know it. We will preserve as our secret the bond of friendship we have formed, and I only entreat of Allah that he may some day permit me to prove to you that I am your friend."
"And this I entreat of Allah, too," said Mohammed, warmly pressing his friend's wan hand. "But now let me go; the scha-er relates again to-day, and I will go and hear him, and come to-morrow to repeat to you what I have heard, if you wish it."
"I shall await you, Mohammed, and count the hours until you come."
They shook hands once more, and Mohammed hurried down the garden- walks. Osman's eyes followed him lovingly.
"I love him, and may Allah enable me to prove it some day!"
Mohammed hurries on, heedless of the direction he has taken, and forgetting that the use of the main avenue was forbidden since the harem had taken possession of the park. He walks on, carelessly, heedlessly. He wishes to pass out at the back gate of the garden, as he often did. Hastening on, with flushed cheeks, he hardly perceives a veiled figure, accompanied by two eunuchs, that has just stepped out into the walk from a side-path. The eunuchs cry out, and imperiously command him to depart instantly. Mohammed stands still, shrugs his shoulders, and regards them derisively.
"Are you the masters here in the park of the tschorbadji of Cavalla?" he asks, proudly. "I shall depart when I choose, and because I choose, and not because the strange servants of the stranger have the insolence to order me to do so."
He said this in haughty, angry tones, and with sparkling eyes, inclined his head slightly to the veiled female figure, and passed slowly by her without even a curious glance.
But she stands still, and her black eyes burn like flames as her gaze follows him, and her purple lips murmur, in low tones: "Beautiful is he, as the young day; beautiful as the rosy dawn of heaven! Oh, that it shone over me! Oh, that this sun were mine!"
He heeded her not; he did not hear the sweet whispering of her lips.
CHAPTER IX
A SOUL IN THE AGONIES OF DEATH.
THE narratives of the scha-er continued to resound in Mohammed's soul, and occupied him day and night. His existence seemed useless and empty, and every thing that surrounded him colorless and desolate. What cared he now for cliffs and caves, for the surging sea, for the blue sky? How little it seemed to him to be the best rifleman and oarsman of the island, to be renowned down in Praousta as the best fisherman!
What does he care for all this? Who hears of what takes place in Cavalla, or in the miserable village of Praousta? Nobody comes here except the merchants who sometimes land to purchase the celebrated tobacco, and the sultan's collectors who come twice a year for the taxes.
Who knows of these insignificant places? Who observes Mohammed Ali when he strikes the bird in its flight, or steers his boat over the waves in the wildest storm? All is tame and paltry! With his mind's eye he sees before him the cities the scha-er had told of. Over there in Egypt, stretched out on the yellow shore of the green sea, lies a great and magnificent city with towers, minarets, and temples, a city such as he has never seen, the, city of Alexandria. Before this city, in the spacious harbor that has existed for thousands of years, lie long rows of ships with masts, and fluttering flags, and golden images at their bows.
Little boats dance about the ship, and all is activity and bustle. In the interior of the land shines El-gahera, the new city, with the palaces of the caliphs and its hundreds of minarets and temples. The streets are alive with men of all nations; there are Turks and Arabians, Egyptians and Europeans. The blacks of Nubia and Abyssinia mingle with the white men of France and Germany, and the languages of all nations are heard.
He lay on the rock, on the Ear of Bucephalus, gazing out into the distance toward the horizon, imagining he could see these wondrous cities. He dreamed of the glories of the world, and his fancy beheld boats and ships, palaces and minarets.
The sea lies beneath like a blue mirror. The waves murmur in low tones as they caress the shore. The stillness is profound, the solitude of the first day of creation surrounds him. Suddenly a cry resounds, a loud, piercing one, such as the eagle utters when his young are in danger. It aroused Mohammed from his meditation.
"Strange! I heard the cry, yet I can nowhere see the eagle that uttered it."
For the second time it resounds, louder and more piercing than before. Mohammed shudders in his whole being.
The cry is not that of an eagle. It is a human voice. Toussoun has uttered it, and it announces that his mother is in danger. He springs with horror to his feet, and bounds from rock to rock, down the steep-he has just heard the cry for the third time.
"Await me, mother! O my mother, I am coming!"
Like an arrow he speeds through the suburb to his mother's hut. Pale and terrified, Toussoun meets him at the door. He had risen from his bed of sickness in response to Khadra's call. With weak, trembling lips he had entreated her to allow him to call her son, and he did call him, breathing out his last remnant of strength in summoning Mohammed to his mother. Pale, weak, and ill, he now returns to his own hut, supported on the arm of a neighbor, and returns to die.
Mohammed has not noticed him. He springs to the door, tears it open, and sees the women who have come to Sitta Khadra's assistance. Now that he has come they walk out noiselessly, and wait at the door.
How long will it be before she is dead, before they can assume the role of mourning-women, and begin their lamentations? True, Sitta Khadra is poor, but then the community will, out of self-respect, pay the mourning charges. Consoling themselves with this thought, the women crouch down at the door.
Mohammed kneels beside the mat on which his mother lies, takes her hands—now almost cold-in his own, bends over her and looks into the widely-distended eyes that stare vacantly up at him, and sobs in loud, heart-rending tones "Mother, Mother, Do you hear me? Here I am, your son, Mohammed. You cannot die, for I am with you!"
The words of her son reach the mother's soul, that was already on the point of fluttering to heaven. It returns to its poor frail habitation. Life returns to her eyes, and a faint smile plays about her pale lips. The mother heard her child's voice, and her soul returned to the already stiffening body.
With a faint smile she raised her head a little to kiss his lips.
"I recognize you, my son, and I awaken once more to bid you farewell."
"No, mother, it is impossible, you cannot leave me!" said he, in such loud and piercing tones that the mourning-women at the door heard it and whispered to each other: "That was a good cry; we could do no better ourselves."
"Son of my heart," whispered Khadra, and the mother employed her last strength to force her cold lips to speak and to recall the thoughts already struggling to take wing—" son of my Ibrahim, do not grieve for me! I have been dying these many days, I have long struggled with Death. He stood at the door ready to take me, but I thrust him back that I might see my son, my darling, once more."
"O mother, mother! you are breaking my heart," cried Mohammed, and his head sank heavily upon his mother's shoulder.
"Be brave, my son, I entreat you with my last breath! Be brave, be a man, and consider my dream with the eye of your soul. Make it reality! Make of the poor, disconsolate boy who stands here the hero of the future, as I saw you in my visions in the nights before you were born! I saw a crown on your head and a sword glittered in your hand. And I see the future now, too; and I will tell you what I see, my son: I see you, your son, and your grandson! They shall all wear crowns, shall sit on one throne, and the nations shall lie in the dust before them! My soul has returned to announce this to you."
"If your soul has returned," said he, in tones of earnest entreaty, "then command it to remain with you! Life will be solitary and desolate without you. You are the only woman I love. If you go, take me with you, and tell the prophet, if he be angry, that I could be of no use here on earth without you. Take me to my father and say to him, the family shall be united in heaven as it never was on earth."
"No, you shall not go with me," said she, raising herself with a last effort from the mat. "I command you to live! I shall go to your father and bear him the greeting of our only son, and say to him, 'We shall not die, we shall live on in our son; he will make our name great and glorious before the world!' But you I command to make true what I shall tell him."
She sank back. Her head fell heavily on her pillow of dry leaves; her breathing became short and painful, and her eyes again assumed the vacant expression that had struck such terror to Mohammed's soul.
"Mother, I entreat you, answer me once more! Do you hear me? Do you love me?"
"I hear you," murmured the stiffening lips. "And do I love you? Your mother's love struggled with Death for a whole year. He tried to drag me hence, and I struggled with him day after day, and night after night. Love helped me to deceive you, or you would have seen your mother dying day by day. Now, I am going hence, and the agathodaemon will give me new garments, and a new countenance full of youth and beauty, that your father may see me as I looked in the days of our youthful love. O my son, may the woman you are to love be not far distant; may she soon wing her flight to you, the dove of innocence, with the countenance of love and the fragrance of the rose? May she open heaven unto you with her star-like eyes? This is my last blessing, my son. Allah watch over you! Farewell!"
The words were soft and low, like the whispering of a departing spirit. Mohammed had listened eagerly, his ear held close to her lips, and he still listened when the light of his mother's eyes was extinguished, and the hand of Death had swept over her countenance, imparting to the white brow a yellow, and to the lips a blue tint. Suddenly he shuddered, raised his head and looked at his mother. He then uttered a shriek, a loud, fearful shriek, that caused the mourning-women outside to bound to their feet, for they knew that it was thus that survivors shriek when Death seizes his prey.
They now commence their mournings, and farther off other cries and lamentations are heard. The latter are uttered by the friends of Ibrahim Aga. They have placed themselves near the but to begin, according to a religious custom, the service of the dead, as soon as the soul shall have left the body.
They form a circle near the open door. Their arms crossed over their breasts, they stand there, moving their heads continually from one side to the other. "Allah il Allah!" they cry, and within stand the women shrieking, yelling, and lamenting, over the deceased. They at last arouse Mohammed, who had swooned away beside the body. He springs to his feet, pushes back the women, and bounds into the middle of the circle of men, who whirl around faster and faster; they suppose he has come to join in their ceremony, but he pushes them aside and rushes forth. He rushes so rapidly up the pathway that no one can follow him, and no one attempts to do so.
His grief must exhaust itself, they say to each other.
"When it has done so, and evening comes, he will return." The evening came, but Mohammed had not returned to perform the sacred duty of watching over the dead through the night, as it became an only son to do. The mourning women had departed to rest after their exertions. They now returned, the sheik having ordered that they should perform the night-watch in the absence of the son, in order that the ghins might not enter and pronounce their curse over the house, condemning the future generations, descending from the dead, to misery.
The mourning-women remained the entire night, sometimes interrupting their prayers, to say to each other that Mohammed, the only son, was really a very unnatural child, and respected his mother very little, or he would not be wandering about among the rocks, while his mother's body was still unburied. Then they console themselves with the thought that he will come in the morning, when the tomtom resounds, which calls the people to the funeral.
The signal is heard on the following morning, and the men come carrying in their crossed arms the Koran.
The sheik himself condescends to appear at Sitta Khadra's funeral. She was an honest, virtuous woman, and is to be buried with honor beside the grave of her husband, Ibrahim.
The mourners slowly assemble. The tomtom is still vainly summoning the only son.
The body has been laid on two boards covered with woollen cloths, and is borne out on the shoulders of four men. The mourning-women yell and shriek, the men murmur prayers, and the drum resounds, while the procession is slowly moving toward the place of burial.
Mohammed hears nothing of all this. He has fled to the cave, once his paradise, now his hell. There he lies on his mat, looking up through the opening in the rock at the heavens, and cursing the ghins who have robbed him of his mother. But his agathodaemon will intercede with Allah for his forgiveness for the despair which causes his lips to utter curses of which his heart knows nothing. The good spirits will intercede for the poor boy.
Driven out into the world alone. Poorer than the eagle's brood in their nest overhead, that have tender parents to care for them. No one cares for me.
The echo mournfully repeats the piercing cry that had resounded throughout the cave, and says sadly: "No one, no one." He then sinks down on his mat, and lies there motionless and insensible with grief and horror.
Without, the sea murmurs gently, as if to sing a song of consolation. He hears it not. All is now so still that the little snakes and green lizards with their sparkling eyes venture forth again from the hiding places to which they had fled when his despairing voice reverberated through the cave. They creep up to the dark, motionless mass that lies there on the ground. The sun sends its rays through the opening in the rock, and throws a streak of golden light across the prostrate body, and the little animals crawl and rustle about to enjoy the sunshine.
A large rock-serpent has crawled from its lair and coiled itself beside Mohammed; its eyes glitter in the sunlight like precious stones.
"I will die—die " he suddenly cries out, and springs to his feet so quickly that the serpents and lizards barely escape being trodden on as they escape to their holes behind the rocks. "Here I will remain. How often, in the past, have I longed to be in my cave, my only secret, my only possession." Once, to gratify this longing, I came here, and then turned back, and said to myself. He who cannot practice self-denial, cannot enjoy! And now I have practiced it, and yet I have not enjoyed. But now I will enjoy, will enjoy death, at least. Yes, I am resolved," said he, with trembling lips." I will remain here and enjoy death. What does this struggling from day to day avail this dreaming of future glory? Each succeeding day is in poverty and misery the same. I was a fool to dream of future glory. Now I will die. Let others be happy! Let the slave, Osman Bey, attain what the free Mohammed cannot attain. He is welcome to his reward death is at the end of it all, for him, too!"
He looks, through the opening in the rock, at the heavens above him, and then rises higher to look down at the sea also, as though he wished to take leave of it in a last glance. He then lies down on his mat again. "Yes, let the slave Osman achieve glory, the free Mohammed prefers death."
And yet, against his will, he must still think of the slave who has gone out into the world over the sea to the wondrous land of Egypt, where the caliphs were once enthroned, where their tombs still stand, and where the Mamelukes now rule in their stead. He still dreams of this wondrous land, with its ancient cities, and thinks that these may be the death dreams that are to lull him to his eternal rest.
He is suddenly awakened from his dreams by a horrible sensation. It is hunger, the hunger that rages within him. It is thirst that parches his lips. The soul wishes to die, but the body calls the man back to life, and appeals to him so loudly, so vehemently, that he cannot but listen to its voice.
He resists with all his might. He will conquer. This miserable hunger, this despicable thirst; he will not heed the pains that rend his body, he will be strong, and a hero, in death at least.
Convulsively he clings to the rock as if to a support against the allurements that strive to draw him out into life. But the voice of the world appeals to him, in louder and louder tones, and fearful are the torments he is undergoing.
The spirit must at last succumb to the demands of Nature. He rises to give to the body what of right belongs to the body, nourishment, drink and food.
He creeps to the entrance, and is so weak that he can hardly pass through the opening, which he had formerly made still narrower, that no one might discover it. He is so weak that he can scarcely stand upright; his swollen lips are bleeding; his brain is burning, and he sinks down upon a rock. A kindly voice now calls him. He hears it, but lacks the strength to answer.
"Mohammed! Mohammed!" is heard again, and now the merchant, Lion, approaches from behind a projecting rock. He had seen the boy, but knowing his proud heart, and fearing to put him to shame by showing himself, and saying that he came to his assistance, he had lingered behind the rock.
He now kneels down beside the boy, bends over him, kisses his lips, and whispers loving words in his ear.
"Poor child, Your mother, who loved you so tenderly, would weep bitterly if she could see you in this condition. Poor boy, you must strengthen yourself. I know you have eaten nothing, and I have brought you food."
He drew a bottle from his pocket, and poured a little wine on his lips. Mohammed tried to resist, but the body was stronger than the will. He greedily swallows the wine, and, without knowing it, asks for more. The merchant smiles approvingly, and pours a little more on his lips, and then gives him a small piece of white bread that he had brought with him, and rejoices when he sees Mohammed breathing with renewed life.
"What are you doing?" he murmured. "I must die, that I may go to my mother."
The merchant stooped down lower over the boy, and kissed him. "Your mother, who loves you so dearly, sends you this kiss, through me. She confided to me that she must die, and I promised her that I would bring you a kiss from her whenever I saw you. With this kiss she commands you to be brave and happy throughout life."
And, as he ceased speaking, he inclined his head and kissed him a second time.
Now, as he receives this kiss from his mother, the tears suddenly burst from his eyes and pour down his cheeks, hot tears, and yet they cool and alleviate the burning pains of his soul.
"You weep," said the merchant, whose own cheeks were wet with grief. "Weep on, pain must have its relief in tears, and even a man need not be ashamed of them."
He sat down beside Mohammed, drew him close to his side, supporting the boy's head on his bosom, and spoke to him of his dear mother.
"Nor are you poor, Mohammed. Your mother returned to me your love- offering, together with other sums she had saved. I have fifty gold- pieces for you. Yes, fifty glittering gold-pieces! You can now dress better than formerly, until provision is made for your future; and, if you should need advice or assistance, come to me. You know that I am your friend. And now, be happy and courageous; remember that poor Sitta Khadra has suffered much, and let her be at rest now. Another friend is awaiting you above on the rock; will you go up to him?"
"It is Osman, is it not?" asked Mohammed, as be dried his eyes. "Am
I not right?"
The merchant inclined his head. "He could not come down the steep path, or he would be here now."
"I will go to him; I know he loves me. He will not laugh when he sees that I have been weeping."
No, Osman did not laugh. When he saw his friend coming, he advanced to meet him with extended arms, and they embraced each other tenderly, tears standing in the eyes of both.
All was still; nothing could be heard but the murmur of the sea, and the rustling of the wind.
The merchant, who had at first stood in silence beside the two, now walked noiselessly away.
They love each other, and what they have to say, no one else should hear.
Mohammed stands up and dries his eyes; he wishes to be composed.
Osman holds out his hand:
"Your mother is dead, but she survives in your friends, and your mother and your friend now extend the hand to you. Mohammed, come with me to my house, for my house is yours, too. I will not have you remain alone; you must come with me."
Mohammed shook his head gravely. "It cannot be—I will not become a slave!"
"Come, out of love for me. Not as my slave, but as my friend. Oh, I am so lonely, and you are the only one who loves, and can console, poor, sickly Osman."
"I will come to you!" exclaimed Mohammed, drawing his friend to his bosom. "Even as a slave would I come, for I should be my friend's slave. I will come to you."
CHAPTER X
COUSROUF PACHA.
THE days had passed quietly and monotonously for Mohammed since the death of his mother.
To climb among the rocks with his gun in stormy weather, to cross over in his boat to Imbra, after the fishermen's nets and fish, and to tame the young Arabian steeds of the tschorbadji that had as yet known no bridle, these were now Mohammed's chief pursuits and pleasures, and in them he engaged with passionate ardor when at leisure, that is, when not with his friend Osman Bey.
That which they had vowed to each other after the death of Mohammed's mother, they had kept-true and firm friendship, brotherly and confidential intercourse. With one wish only of young Osman, had Mohammed not complied: he had not gone to live with him in the proud, governmental building-had refused to share his friend's luxury and magnificence, and to allow his poverty to be put to shame by the benefits which he would have been compelled to accept.
The hut, inherited from his parents, he retained as his own dwelling. In it nothing had been changed; the mat on which his mother had died was now his bed. In the pitcher out of which she had drunk, he each morning brought fresh water from the spring, and all the articles she had used, poor and miserable as they were, now constituted the furniture of his hut.
In vain had Osman continually renewed his entreaties: "Come to me. Live with me; not for your own sake, Mohammed. I know that you despise luxury, and that the splendor that surrounds us is offensive to you. Not for your own, but for my sake, Mohammed, come to me and live with us. My father is so anxious to have you do so, for he knows that your presence is the best medicine for me. I feel so well and strong when I look at you, Mohammed; and, when you sometimes yield to my entreaties and spend the night with me in my room, it seems to me I sleep better, for I know that my friend is watching over me. Stay with me, Mohammed!"
These soft entreaties, accompanied by tender looks, touched
Mohammed, but they could not shake his resolution.
"I cannot and dare not accept, Osman. It would make me unhappy; I should feel myself under too much restraint; I must, above all, preserve the consciousness of being perfectly free and independent. I must feel that I can leave when I choose, and for this very reason is it so sweet to remain—to be with you, unfettered for your sake only, Osman. If I should come and live with you in the palace of the tschorbadji, do you not think I should be an object of dislike to your slaves and servants; that they would point at me when I passed, and whisper: 'How proud and insolent he is, and yet he is less than I! We are the slaves of our master, and repay with our work the money he spends on our account. But what is he? A proud beggar supported by charity, who has the impudence to give himself the airs of a gentleman.' Your slaves would say this of me, and mock me with my beggar pride. But, as it is, I am free, and my clothing is my own. It is certainly not as handsome as yours, the caftan not embroidered, the shawl not of Persian make, and the kuffei around my fez not inworked with gold. But yet it is my own, and it pleases me to be thus plainly dressed, as it becomes the son of Ibrahim Aga. I live as it becomes me; my hut is dark and poor—but it is mine, and in it I am a free man. I do not sleep on soft cushions; a plain mat is my bed, but on this mat my mother reposed, and on it she died. To me it is sacred. I pray to my mother each night, Osman, and I greet her each morning when I drink out of the wooden cup so often touched by her lips. I should have to give up all this, and come here to repose in splendid apartments, sleep on silken mattresses, and allow myself to be waited on by slaves who do not belong to me. No, Osman, do not demand this; let me come to you each day, of my own free-will and love."
He extended his hand to his friend, who, as usual, lay reclining on his couch, and Osman pressed it warmly in his own.
"You are a proud boy," said he, in low tones, "and though your refusal gives me pain, I can still understand that in your sense you are right, Mohammed. In short, you do not wish to be grateful to anybody."
"And yet I am grateful to you, Osman," said Mohammed, regarding him tenderly; "all my heart is full of gratitude and love for you; but how much do I owe to you! Is it not for your sake that your father, the proud tschorbadji, is so kind and friendly to me? Does he not allow me, the lowly born, to sit with him at his table, and treat me as his equal?"
"Because he well knows that you would otherwise never come to me again," said Osman, with a sad smile. "He is careful not to hurt or offend you in any way, for, as you know, my father loves me very dearly, and it would give him pain to deprive me of the only friend I possess. My father knows that you are my benefactor, and that I live from your life, Mohammed. Look at me wonderingly, if you will; I am a sick child, and shall remain one, although years have made me a youth. And let me tell you, Mohammed, I shall never become a strong, healthy man. I have very weak lungs, inherited from my mother, and if it were not for you, if I had not been sustained by your healthy and vigorous mind and disposition, I should have died long since. Therefore, do not say that you have cause to be grateful to me. My father and I both have cause to be grateful to you, for my father loves me and rejoices in my life; and I, too, am very glad to live. The sun is so beautiful, it is so delightful to look at the deep-blue sky, the flowers are so fragrant, and finally it is such a pleasure to see you and to rejoice in your vigorous mind. I therefore owe every thing to you, Mohammed, and father and I know this, and are very thankful."
"Those are sweet words, Osman," said Mohammed, bestowing an affectionate look on his friend. "You are so noble and generous, that you wish to make it appear that all the benefits I have received from you were bestowed by me. But Allah knows that I am profoundly grateful, and I am aware, too, that I have cause to be. Only consider, that to you and your father I owe all that I know. Have I not been allowed to share the instruction given you? Has not the scha-er, whom your father, as his narratives pleased us so much, kept here at a heavy expense, instructed me, too, and taught us both the history of our own and of all other countries? Have I not had the same opportunities as yourself of learning of all that is going on out in the world? Did I not share your instruction in all other branches? Have not the poems of our land been read to us, and have we not learned to understand the Koran, and receive into our souls the wise teachings of the prophet Mahommed? Have we not also learned the difficult science of algebra, and are we not familiar with the laws of justice? Do I not owe it entirely to the instruction which I have shared with you that I can also read the Koran and the books of the prophets and poets? Ah, Osman, I still remember with shame how I was sorrowfully compelled to confess to our teacher in our first lessons, that I knew and understood nothing; that I could not read, and did not even know the letters and figures."
"And how rapidly you learned all this!" said Osman. "It surprised everybody, and I assure you the scha-rer is always charmed when he speaks of you, and he listens admiringly to what you say after the lessons are over. Yes, the scha-rer says, if you only would you could become one of the greatest of scholars, so rapid has been your progress; but-"
"But one thing I have not learned", said Mohammed, interrupting him with a smile". You were about to begin the old story, were you not, Osman? 'But you never would learn to write,' you were about to say."
"Yes, that is what I intended to say, my friend, and this one thing you must still learn: to use the pen and write down your thoughts on paper."
"I cannot", cried Mohammed, impatiently; "my hands are too rough. The oar and the gun have made my fingers so stiff that I cannot use the pen."
"Then let it be so. I will torment you about it no longer." said Osman, with a sigh. "You are my head and I am your hand. You think for me, and I shall write for you. So shall it be throughout our entire lives, for together we two must remain, and nothing can separate us. Is it not so, my friend? Say it, and say it often, that nothing can separate us. For you must know that if fate should tear you from me it would kill me, and that you cannot intend: therefore, we shall ever remain together, shall we not?"
"We shall ever remain together," said Mohammed. "That is Osman, consider well what you are saying, for you are nearly eighteen years old."
"As you are," responded Osman, smiling.
"Only with this difference, that your father will give you with your eighteenth year, a beautiful aristocratic lady to wife, and establish a harem for you; while Mohammed Ali will never have either a sweetheart or a harem, but will always remain alone and unwedded."
"Who knows?" replied Osman, laughing. "Those who assure us they will never love, says the poet, are the one's that fall in love soonest. One is easily surprised by the enemy who is not feared, and against whose snares the heart is not on its guard . . . This will be your fate, Mohammed. Your heart is not on its guard, and does not fear the enemy, love . . . But my poor heart has no cause to fear and be on its guard; let me repeat it, Mohammed; look at me. Can the poor, pale youth, with his wan countenance, his sunken breast, and his weak breath can he think of marrying? Or do you suppose I would care to become a subject of jest in the harem to the female slaves and servants, who would have to wait on the sick man? True, the tschorbadji, my father, has sometimes spoken of giving me an establishment of my own with my eighteenth year. I remained silent, for fortunately it is at present impossible. My establishment was to have been above in the upper saloons, and fortunately Cousrouf Pacha with his harem is still in possession of that part of our house. May he long remain there! I do not wish it on his account, or because I love him, but solely because my father must now delay the execution of this plan. May Cousrouf Pacha, therefore, long remain!"
"I do not wish it," said Mohammed, gloomily; "he is a hard, proud man, better in his own estimation than anybody here in Cavalla, better even than the tschorbadji. I never saw a prouder man. And what right has he to be so? Has he not fallen into disgrace with the sultan? Did he not come here because he was banished from Stamboul? And do you know why he was banished? I will tell you: because—so have strangers who have come here reported, because he sought the death of his benefactor and master, the grand admiral, Hussein Pacha, in order that he might put himself in his place. Isn't this horrible, Osman? The grand-admiral had bought him as a slave, and then, because he loved him; made him free, and a wealthy man; he had him instructed, and persuaded the sultan to appoint him bey and pasha; and in return for all this, Cousrouf Pacha attempted to poison his faithful master and benefactor, and calumniated him to the grand sultan. Isn't this horrible?"
"It certainly would be if it were true," said Osman; "yet I do not believe it. Much is told and said of the great and mighty, and they are often calumniated and accused of evil deeds which they have not committed. If it were so, do you not suppose the grand-admiral, Hussein Pacha, the mighty man, and the grand-sultan, would have punished him as he deserved? No, my father says differently, and has received from Stamboul other and more reliable information. Cousrouf Pasha has fallen into disgrace—that is a fixed fact—and the sultan has sent him into exile. Yet he did so against the wish of the Grand-Admiral Hussein. Do you know why? Consrouf has fallen into disgrace? Because he refused to go to Egypt as pacha, declaring that was equivalent to sending him into an open grave, as he should never return home from that land of rebels and Mamelukes. The sultan wished to send him to Egypt because he suspected him of having a secret amorous intrigue with one of the sultanas. The sultan had been told that Cousrouf Pacha was in the habit of being secretly conducted to the sultana's chamber at night by a female slave. As the sultan stealthily approached and opened the door of the chamber, he heard a rustling and whispering, but was so dark in the room that he could see nothing. He called slaves with torches to his assistance. They searched the room, but found nothing. The sultana stood on the balcony looking out into the starlit night. She met her husband with a smiling countenance, saying the night was so beautiful, she had gone out to gaze at the stars. The sultan, it is said, gnashed his teeth with rage, but kept silence, as it would have been unworthy of his dignity to threaten where he could not also punish. On the following morning he sent Cousrouf Pacha into exile to this place, my father tells me. But it is thought the sultan's anger will soon expend itself, and that his friend the grand-admiral, Hussein Pacha, will succeed in restoring his favorite to honor. Cousrouf Pacha, my father says, is already heartily tired of his tedious sojourn here, and has written to Hussein Pacha that he is now ready to go to Egypt as pacha."
"Ready to revel in the glories of the world! Truly this great Cousrouf Pacha is very condescending, "cried Mohammed, in derisive tones. "He acts as though he were conferring a favor in accepting that for which another would give his heart's blood."
"Would you, Mohammed? " asked Osman, smiling.
"I would give my blood, drop by drop, only retaining enough to sustain life. Oh, to live there, to go to Egypt as the grand- sultan's pacha, to rule in that beautiful land, to make the rebels, the Mamelukes, and the beys, bow down in the dust. To vanquish them all, Osman, this is my dream of bliss, this is but no, I am still the same foolish boy, dreaming of impossibilities. See, there come those of whom we have been speaking," raising his hand and pointing to the hallway. "There comes the tschorbadji with Cousrouf Pacha. Let me go now, Osman, it is unpleasant to be in the vicinity of this haughty man; my heart always fiercely resents his insolence. Let me go!"
Osman held him back. "See, they are looking at us, Mohammed. If you should go now, it would look as though you desired to avoid my father also, and that you assuredly do not wish. Moreover, the haughty gentleman might think that respect for him made you run away, as the lizard flees before the footstep of man. Stay!"
"You are right," said Mohammed, "I shall stay."
He straightened himself up, threw his head back proudly, folded his arms on his breast, and stood beside his friend's couch, gazing composedly at the two gentlemen who were advancing toward them, followed by a number of slaves.
As they came nearer, the tschorbadji stepped hastily forward to greet his son with loving, tender words. Mohammed inclined his head with profound reverence before the father of his beloved friend. He then raised his head again, and firmly met the glance of the haughty Cousrouf Pacha, without any manifestation of deference whatever. The latter stepped forward, and greeted Osman with friendly words; he then turned, and fixed his dark-gray eyes on the young man who stood beside him, awaiting his deferential salutation.
But Mohammed did not salute him. He still stood erect, his arms folded on his breast, beside his friend's couch.
The pacha slowly turned to the governor. "Tell me, tschorbadji, who is this person? Your slave, is he not?"
"No," cried Osman, rising partially from his couch, and anticipating his father's reply. "No, your excellency, he is not our slave, but my friend, my beloved friend, Mohammed Ali."
"Your friend! A great honor for such a lad, too great an honor, I should think," said Cousrouf Pacha, directing a fierce glance at Mohammed, who still stood erect beside him.
"Why should your excellency think so?" asked he in sharp, almost threatening tones. "Why is it too great an honor that the son of the tschorbadji calls me his friend? Has it not occurred that aristocratic gentlemen have elevated to an equality with themselves, and made friends even of, slaves, and purchased boys? I remember hearing the scha-er tell of a Circassian slave whom the grand- admiral, at Stamboul, purchased, and subsequently called his friend. He was not ashamed of him, although the lad called Cousrouf was, after all, only a slave."
"In the name of Allah, I pray you, be still!" cried the tschorbadji, looking anxiously at Mohammed.
"And why should he be still?" asked Cousrouf, in cold, cutting tones. "He is merely telling a story learned from the scha-er. You know, tschorbadji, it is customary to pay story-tellers, and give them a piaster.—Here, take your pay, you little scha-er."
The pacha drew from his silken purse, filled with gold-pieces, a ducat, and threw it at the boy's feet.
Mohammed uttered a cry of rage, and took up the gold-piece as though he intended to throw it in the pacha's face. But Osman held his hand, and begged him in a low voice to be composed.
Mohammed struggled to compose himself. His face was pale, his lips trembled, and his eyes gleamed with wrath and hatred, as he glanced at the pacha; then his countenance became firm and composed. He beckoned to a slave who stood at a distance, to approach, and threw him the gold-piece. "The slave gives the slave his reward. Take it, thou slave!"
A moment of silence and anxious suspense intervened, and then Mohammed's and the pacha's eyes met again in a fierce, piercing glance. The pacha then turned, and addressed the tschorbadji:
"If he were my servant," said he, "I should have him taken out to the court-yard for his insolence. If he there received, as he richly deserves, the bastinado, I think he would soon become humble and quiet. The viper bites no longer when its fangs are extracted.—I tell you, tschorbadji, if he were my servant, he should now receive the bastinado."
"And if you were my servant," exclaimed Mohammed, haughtily, "I should treat you in precisely the same manner, sir. The bastinado is very painful, I am told, and you probably know it by personal experience. But this you should know, too, sir, that here on the peninsula of Contessa, slaves only are chastised, and slaves only receive the bastinado. I, however, have never been a slave, but always a free man; and what I am and shall be, I am, I am proud to say, through myself alone. I have not been bought and bargained for, and I sleep better in my dark little but than others who were once slaves, and who, having risen through the favor of their masters, now repose on silken couches."
"Tschorbadji Hassan!" cried Cousrouf, pale with anger, and hardly capable of restraining himself from striking the bold youth in the face with his own fist—"Tschorbadji Hassan, you shall punish the insolence of this servant who dares to insult me, Cousrouf Pacha. I demand of you punishment for this insolence."
"I have broken no law, and there is no law that condemns me to punishment," said Mohammed, firmly and composedly. "Your excellency does me the honor to dispute with me, that is all. With us punishment is meted out according to the law only, and not at the pleasure of every grand gentleman."
The tschorbadji stepped up to Cousrouf Pacha, and earnestly conjured him to show mercy to his son's friend, for his sake.
"Consider that Osman is my only child, and my only happiness. Consider that he loves Mohammed as if he were a brother. The physicians say he would die if separated from Mohammed. Be merciful, and forgive the insolence provoked by your own overbearing words. I entreat you to be merciful, and to come away with me."
He took Cousrouf's arm in his own, and drew him away, almost forcibly entreating him, with all the anxiety of a father's heart, to forgive the uncultured youth, who knew nothing of becoming deportment and polished manners. He was an untamed lion, unfamiliar with the gentle ways of the domestic animals.
"And yet I wish I had this young lion in my power," said Cousrouf, gnashing his teeth with rage, as he followed the governor. "I should extract his teeth, and prove to the monster that he was not a lion, but only a miserable cat, to be trodden under my feet!"
The tschorbadji drew him away more rapidly, that Mohammed might not hear him. He had looked back and perceived that Mohammed was standing still, gazing at them with a threatening eye, and, in reality with the bearing of a lion prepared for the deadly spring.
When they had disappeared, Osman rose from his cushions, stood up, threw his arms around his friend's neck, and kissed his quivering lips.
"I thank you, my hero, my king, my lion! You stood there like David before Goliath, and overthrew him in the dust. You made the insolent giant small, you hero. I thank you, my Mohammed!"
CHAPTER XI
THE REVOLT.
The great square which lay in the centre of the village of Praousta resounded with wild outcries and clamorings. All the men of the place had assembled by the sea shore; they were generally honest, peaceful sailors, but today they were raging rebels roused to revolt against those in authority, and refusing obedience to the tschorbadji.
Two pale, trembling men stood in the midst of the revolting crowd. They were evidently Turks, by their closely-fitting uniforms, and the scarlet fez on their heads; the short arms which hung at their sides showed them to be the kavassen, or the collectors of the tschorbadji.
These collectors were always an abomination to the people of Praousta; they greeted them constantly with murmuring when they came to collect the taxes, and often, before now, the appeasing, tranquillizing words of the sheik had alone secured the payment of the sums demanded. Today, however, their long-restrained indignation had broken forth. Today, although the sea was so still and peaceful, no one had gone out to fish, for it had been fully determined that on this day they would refuse the demands of the governor's collectors. The collectors had gone to the village, suspecting nothing. The assessment had been brought by one of them several days before to the sheik, who had received it with a very troubled countenance.
"A double tax? " he had said; "that will be most unwelcome to the men of Praousta."
The messenger of the tschorbadji merely shrugged his shoulders. "They will pay it, nevertheless, as the men in Cavalla and other places have done. The money must be collected." Then, with the haughty bearing which, the officials of the tschorbadji always assumed, he retired.
The sheik called together a council of the oldest men of the village and the ulemas, and informed them that the tschorbadji was compelled to lay a double tax on them at this time because, although his own expenses had been greater, he was obliged to forward the usual amount to Stamboul. New roads had been built; besides that, the tobacco-crop had failed, and new public buildings had been erected. All these expenses must be met, as well as the full amount for Stamboul, which must on no account be lessened.
The men had declared at once, with angry words, that they would never pay the tax. On the morning of the day when the two collectors came from Cavalla, the men of the village assembled in the square as they had determined to do, and greeted them with loud and angry clamorings.
"We will pay no double tax," cried Abdallah, the leader of the fishermen. "It is quite enough that we are obliged to pay any tax. What do the grand-sultan and his ministers do for us? Not one of them aids us when our crops fail or when we suffer from other misfortunes. When we have double crops, must we not always pay a double tax? But this year we have not even good crops. Our tobacco- crops have failed; our fishing-nets, with all the fish we had taken, have been lost in the storms. Tell us, then, for what reasons we must pay a double tax?"
"The reasons, my dear fishermen," said the collectors—"the reasons are, that the tschorbadji commands it, and his commands must be obeyed, because the grand-sultan has made him your governor."
"If those were reasons," shrieked the fishermen, "the tschorbadji could drive us from our huts, and take from us all that is ours. Those are no reasons; no, we will not pay the tax!"
"You must, and you will!" cried the second officer.
That was the signal for all the men to draw their knives with lightning-speed from their belts. They brandished them in their fists, pressing from all sides upon the two officers, and swearing to kill them if they did not go at once to Cavalla and announce what had occurred here.
Some of the men rushed off to the dwelling of the sheik, while others hastened to bring the ulemas to the square.
"Are we to pay the double tax, sheik? Speak for us; tell the officers what answer they must take to the tschorbadji."
The sheik bowed kindly on every side as he made his way through the circle of armed men. All was profound silence as he came before the two officers, and all present listened in breathless silence to his words.
"Lo, ye servants of justice!" exclaimed the sheik in a solemn voice, "I say, go up to the city, and inform the tschorbadji that he has demanded more than is just of the men of Praousta."
An overwhelming, thundering huzza interrupted the sheik.
"Speak on," was then the cry. "Let us hear what the good sheik has to say to us!"
Once more there was breathless silence, and the sheik proceeded in solemn tones:
"State to the tschorbadji that, by the will of Allah, we have been pursued by storms and misfortunes. We submit to the will of Allah, and pray to the prophet, to implore him to be merciful to us. If he hears our prayers, and the next harvest is blessed, and the fish are plentiful in our nets, and if then the purses of the people of Praousta are again filled, they will gladly pay the tschorbadji the accustomed tax, but not a double tax."
"No, not a double tax!" shrieked the men. "We must pay, that the tschorbadji may live in pride and splendor with his aristocratic guest, who keeps a harem, and has himself borne about in a palanquin, or rides a splendid horse through the streets, while we have to content ourselves with humbly walking. No, we pay no more for the tschorbadji and his aristocratic guest. Long live our sheik, who stands by us! Go up, officers, and deliver the message he has given you."
The officers, frightened and trembling, were well pleased to escape unharmed from the raging crowd. They passed hurriedly through the narrow passage which was opened for them on the way toward Cavalla.
"Long live our sheik! Allah be praised for him!" cried the men, raising him and the three ulemas, in their enthusiasm, on their shoulders, and carrying them to their dwellings.
"You stood by us, 0 sheik, and we wish to thank you," said Abdallah, speaking for all, when they had put the sheik down before his house.
"I stand by you," answered the sheik, giving his hand to all, "but you must stand by each other. We have held a council through the entire night, and we have concluded that the demand is unjust, and have therefore, in the name of the people, declined to meet it. Now, however, you must not be intimidated; you must be firm. Then no one will dare to molest us."
"We will be firm in what we have determined, and not give way," cried they all. "Long live the sheik and the ulemas!"
"Now return quietly to your houses, and wait to see what the tschorbadji will do," said the sheik. "We shall see if he is content with your refusal."
The men obeyed the order of the sheik, and went to their huts, to await there the next movement.
The two officers returned, with rapid steps, to Cavalla.
The governor was seated in the hall, with his favorite, his Osman, by whose side was Mohammed, who had yielded to the entreaties of his friend, and spent the last few months with him.
Osman considered it a great kindness that Mohammed had, at last, agreed to his wishes, and had remained with him at night. When the governor looked joyfully at his son, and said he had never seen him so gay and happy, Osman smiled and nodded toward Mohammed. "You should thank Mohammed; as long as he remains in our house, the air seems purer and fresher to me. He alone understands how to make me well, and, if I could always have him with me, I would be the happiest of men."
The tschorbadji offered his hand to Mohammed, bowing and smiling kindly. "Mohammed, I wish you would, at last, yield to the united prayers of my son and myself, and would consent to live in this house. Let me have two sons, and I shall be doubly rich."
"In veneration I will be your son," replied Mohammed, pressing the governor's hand to his brow; "I will obey you in all things! One thing alone do not demand—that I shall irrevocably relinquish my freedom. Let me come and go at my pleasure. Love always draws me back to my Osman, even when, in the restlessness of my heart, I wander on the sea, or in the mountains, or remain solitary in my silent hut. Friendship for you has bound chains about my soul, and I must always return. Leave to me the feeling of independence, or I shall not be happy."
Osman nodded smilingly to him. "It shall be as you wish, and we will never weary him again, my father, with our prayers. He will return to us, he says, and Mohammed always keeps his word. But look, father what can be the matter with these two officers who are hurrying toward us?"
"They seem to have met with some misfortune; they look pale and excited, and are coming here without being announced," he said, rising from his cushions, and beckoning to the collectors, who had remained respectfully standing at the entrance, to come forward.— "Well, what is the matter? You look as disturbed as if something dreadful had happened to you!"
"Yes, governor, something dreadful has happened," they answered, bowing deeply. "We have been down to Praousta, as your excellency ordered, to collect the double tax."
"And you have brought the gold with you, and given it to my treasurer?"
"No, we have not brought it."
"Not brought it!" exclaimed the tschorbadji, with the utmost astonishment; "I send you to collect the taxes, and you return without the money. Have thieves fallen upon you, and robbed you? My collectors have allowed the gold to be taken from them, and now dare to appear, empty-handed, before me!"
"O governor, we are innocent," replied the men. "No thieves took the money from us, but the men of Praousta have revolted; they have assembled together in the market place, and have solemnly declared that they will never pay the double tax!"
While they were making their report, Mohammed sprung from his seat, and listened breathlessly to them.
"They refused to pay the tax," said the tschorbadji, in an angry voice. "And did you not go to the sheik and ulemas?"
"The men of Praousta went themselves, and brought out the sheik and the ulemas, that they might speak decisively for all. We were to take their answer to the tschorbadji."
"And they did this?" cried Mohammed, forgetting all proper reverence, and speaking to the men in the presence of the governor.
"Yes, they did this," returned the collectors, breathing hard.
"What did they say!" demanded the tschorbadji, excitedly.
"The sheik looked at us contemptuously, and ordered us to state to the tschorbadji that Praousta had no thought of paying either the double or the simple tax."
"And the ulemas?" asked Osman, rising from his couch, "did they confirm what the sheik said?"
"Yes, sir, they confirmed what the sheik said," answered the collectors.
"It is then an open revolt," cried the outraged tschorbadji. "They refuse obedience to my commands!"
"Yes, they refuse to obey you!" repeated the collectors. "Every fisherman has armed himself with sword and knife, and swears to die sooner than pay this unjust tax, as they call it."
"And you allowed yourselves to be frightened by such words," cried Mohammed, with flaming eyes. " And you did not fall upon them, sword in hand, to force them to their duty!"
"We were but two against fifty!"
"Two men against fifty cowards! I should think the men would have carried the day. But you are not men; you did not even draw your swords and fell this seditious sheik to the earth!"
"The people would have torn us to pieces!" exclaimed the collectors, "if we had attempted it."
"You would have perished in the fulfilment of your duty!" cried Mohammed. "Far better that, than to return home with the knowledge that you had acted as cowards!"
Osman looked wonderingly at his friend, while the tschorbadji stood lost in thought, his countenance growing darker and darker.
"This is revolt—rebellion!" he said, after a pause. "What shall I do? The men of Praousta are remarkable for their strength, as well as for their free and independent opinions."
He ordered the collectors to leave the room, and await his call without; then paced thoughtfully up and down. The two young men dared not disturb him.
"I do not know what to do," he said, after a long silence. "I have no military force, and in Praousta dwell more than fifty brave, bold men. You know I have only fifty collectors in my service in all the districts of the peninsula. I do not know where to begin; even if I had the men, I would very unwillingly use force. I believe the best thing I can do would be to go down, with a few servants, to the village, and seek, by kind words, to quiet the people, and induce them to pay the tax. What do you think, my son, Osman?"
Mohammed listened, with flashing eyes, to the tschorbadji; and breathlessly awaited Osman's answer. But Osman only looked at his friend, and said to his father, "Ask Mohammed what he thinks."
"Well, then, you speak, Mohammed," said the tschorbadji; "what do you think of my proposition?"
"I think that such a thing should never be permitted. It does not become you to go and beg, when you should command, governor," he cried. "Will you empower me to collect the tax?"
"How will you do it?" asked the tschorbadji, with a doubting smile.
"That is my secret, governor. Give me authority to treat with the rebels, and give me, in addition, two collectors and six armed soldiers."