CHAPTER II
ALL THINGS PASS AWAY.
Ten years had passed since the painful event that had consigned the daughter of the sheik, the Flower of Praousta, to so early a grave, and caused him who had loved her a long and severe illness.
Ten years! To the happy, when he looks back at them, they are but a few days of sunshine, the contemplation of which delights him, and the memory of which softens his heart. To the unhappy they are as a cold, desolate eternity of torment, and he looks back with reluctance at them, and the misery he has endured, measuring the days of anguish that are still to come.
Ten years! In Cavalla they had changed nothing. They had only left their handwriting on the faces of those who had been living ten years before, and had witnessed those painful events. The faces of men had changed, but the sea then, as at that time, shone in the beauty and freshness of eternal youth, and still surged in majesty along its rock-bound coast, and over the deep, the unknown grave of the beautiful Masa, the forgotten one.
Yes, the forgotten one!
All things pass away; grief as well as joy is forgotten. The years roll on over both, like the waves of the deep over the bodies consigned to its keeping.
All things pass away! Man has only to learn and to wait in patience. No matter how pain may rend his soul, if he only knows how to wait in patience, the balm of time will gradually heal his wounds and soothe his soul. All things pass away!
To be sure there are hopeless and weak natures who refuse to wait for this soothing balm of time; natures which destroy themselves in fiery torture, or in their cowardly weakness are destroyed by the dark genius of despair.
The poor sheik had not been able to bear the loss of his only child, his Masa. He had died of grief. He had called for his Masa with his last breath.
No one now speaks of her. The young girls of that time have now become mothers, and sometimes tell their little ones of the Flower of Praousta and her death, as of a fairy tale of the olden time.
It has become a fairy-tale, and has been written in verses which the fisher-boys sing when they go out upon the waves. They have almost forgotten that only ten years have passed since Masa's death; and when they gaze at the pale, earnest face of Mohammed Ali as he passes through the streets of Cavalla in his business occupations, they scarcely remember that he it is who was the cause of her death.
Does he remember it himself?
All things pass away, grief and joy alike. He has suffered much since those days, but he has suffered in silence; few know that he loved Masa, and these few have considerately refrained from touching the wound that had once bled in his heart, lest it might not yet be healed.
When found on the sea-shore that morning by the father of his friend Osman, Mohammed Ali was taken up to the governor's house, where he was tenderly cared for.
For many days he remained entirely unconscious of all that was going on around him. He lay there coffined in his grief, as in living death. They cooled his feverish brow, and poured strengthening cordials between his lips. The magi cians and sorcerers, as well as the physicians of Cavalla and the neighboring cities, were summoned to his assistance by the tschorbadji and his son. But neither amulets nor talismans, neither medicines nor herbs, could heal the wounds which did not bleed, or cool the burning pain of his soul.
He lay there motionless, his eyes gazing fixedly at vacancy, and yet they constantly saw the one fearful yet blissful picture, the Flower of Praousta, the white dove, as she lay there in the early dawn, her large eyes fixed on him tenderly ; and saw, too, the fearful, the never-to-be-forgotten event. As the dark body sank beneath the waves, a shudder would course through his whole being, and a scarcely-audible cry escape his lips. The ear of his listening friend Osman would catch the word that escaped him, and this word was "Revenge! revenge!"
With time all things pass away. There is a limit to the profoundest pain, to the profoundest torpor. One day Mohammed raised his hand and in a low voice called for water.
Consciousness had returned. He now felt the torment that glowed in his soul. When a man has become conscious of his suffering, there is a possibility of relief.
The water at least cooled his lips; and the tender, affectionate words of his friend, and the tears of sympathy that fell upon his countenance, at last cooled the fire that burned in his soul.
Happy is be who can impart his grief to others, whom Fate does not compel to confine it within his own bosom, and let it gnaw at his vitals. Happy is he who can pour out the burden of his sorrow and suffering in the ear of a friend! That grief of which one can speak is not mortal.
But there is another kind of grief and suffering more bitter than that—it is deep, like the grave. Black like the night is the grief that can find no utterance, that is chained to the heart by a sense of duty.
Are such the grief and suffering that burden the breast of the pale man who stands there on the shore gazing out at the sea? Are such the grief and suffering that sometimes break in upon the solitude and stillness of the night in low sobs from the lips of the man who, but ten years ago, was so full of the courage, energy, and joyousness of youth?
Osman had not nursed his friend alone. A woman had stood at his side; the beautiful Ada, of whom Osman some times whispered to his friend that she loved him.
Upon hearing of his grief and illness, Ada, conscious of her love only, and casting aside all the fetters that bound her, had left her husband's house and came to the palace of her uncle, with whom she was a great favorite. With glowing words she told him that she would never return to the house of her husband, who had long tormented her with his fierce jealousy, because he well knew that his wife did not love him, but loved the friend of his relative, young Mohammed Ali. In the strength and ardor of her love, she had not cared to deny that this was so, and firmly declared that she would be his alone; and therefore had she come up to the palace to nurse and wait on him she loved, in his illness and distress.
The tschorbadji did not oppose her wishes, and the poor, delicate youth Osman was well pleased to have Ada's assistance in nursing his friend.
She had been at his bedside constantly, and listened eagerly to the words that fell from his lips in the delirium of his fever. Ada would lie on her knees beside him, absorbed in those mysterious outpourings of the human heart; listening to his descriptions of the object of his great love, of his Masa, of her fate, and hear his oaths of vengeance.
After the days of fever, and of the outpourings of anguish, came the days of exhaustion and of returning consciousness. The struggle between life and death lasted long, but life was at last victorious.
Mohammed now felt his weakness, and he lay, as in the beginning of his illness, for many a day, motionless, on his bed, with widely- opened eyes, staring around him.
But he now saw, and was conscious of what he saw.
He saw his friend Osman, who followed his every movement with tender glances, and whose countenance shone with delight when Mohammed smiled on him, and told him with a look that he recognized him, and knew of his love. He saw, too, the veiled woman, who flitted about him, reading his every wish in his face, and fulfilling it before he expressed it. It touched his heart to perceive that there was still a woman who cared for him, and was anxious on his account. He had believed himself alone in the wide world, and there were now beside him two beings that shared his sorrow, and whose hearts beat warmly for him. This was written in their countenances; this their busy, anxious movements betrayed.
When he was sufficiently recovered to be spoken to, Osman told him of Ada's love, of her grief on his account, of her joy in being permitted to nurse him, and of her having separated herself from the past, forsaking all else to serve him and him alone.
He made no reply, but closed his eyes, and a low groan escaped his lips.
Poor Ada! The story of her love reminds him of his own, and for a moment the old wound bleeds afresh.
Could he be ungrateful? Could he now abandon her who had forsaken every thing for him when he was in distress, and needed her care? Could he do this now, when strength had returned to him, now that he was able to walk in the garden, supported on his friend Osman's arm? Could he forsake her who walked beside him, her eyes sparkling with delight at his recovery?
And when the tschorbadji came, now that Mohammed was strong enough to occupy himself with his future business matters, and spoke to him seriously, and, with Ada's consent, formally proposed his marriage with his niece, in order that her reputation might not suffer, and that she might regain the position she had lost before the world on his account, could he cowardly decline, and excuse himself with his own grief? Would it become him to say, "Let the woman who has loved me live in disgrace!" Could he do this?
No, he felt that it would be cruel in him to act thus; and how could he be cruel, he who had suffered so much from the inhumanity of others?
He accepted the tscborbadji's proposal. He went to Ada, who awaited him, her heart throbbing anxiously, and asked her if she would be his wife, follow him to his house, and walk with him through life in sorrow and in joy.
He asked this question in a sad, low voice, and Ada knew what lay buried in the depths of his heart; but she, nevertheless, accepted his offer, and consoled herself with the thought: "All things pass away, and time heals all wounds."
She became his wife, and brought with her a rich dowry.
He had, however, made no inquiries after this; did not care for it; and did not rejoice when, on the morning after the wedding, the tschorbadji took his arm and conducted him to one of the largest and best houses in the main street of Cavalla. He showed him the store and parlors, and led him up the stone stairway into the apartments of the harem, that were richly furnished and adorned.
Nor did he smile when, on descending the stairway, Ada met him, and begged him, in her gentle voice, to accept the house and all it contained as his property, as a love-offering from her.
He thanked her with many kind and tender words, yet Ada felt that the wound still burned in his soul, and the sad tone of his voice did not escape her. The house was handsome, and so was the store. The advice of the merchant Lion had been taken by Ada, and the tschorbadji and he kindly assisted in arranging every thing for the young merchant in a suitable and appropriate manner. Mohammed was not to deal, like his friend Lion, in all kinds of household articles. Lion knew the young man better; he knew that such a business would not suit him, and that his lips would not conform to the necessity of using complacent words and flattery, in order to dispose of his wares. The merchant had, therefore, advised Ada and the tschorbadji to arrange to have the young man embark in a wholesale business.
The tobacco of Macedonia is celebrated far and wide, and vessels come there from all quarters of the globe to export this article and distribute it throughout the world. They had, therefore, made Mohammed proprietor of a large tobacco warehouse, and he had now been engaged in this business some ten years, and had become a wealthy merchant. The people called him a happy man, too, and perhaps be was, for Mohammed seemed to have true domestic happiness in his wife and children; he conducted no second wife into his harem. Ada was his only wife, and the sole mistress of his house.
Yes, he was certainly happy in his family; three sons had been born to him, and he often went out upon the sea with them, and taught them, in their boats, to command the waves; he also taught them to handle the gun, and other manly accomplishments. But he never took the boys to that part of the shore where the entrance to the cave lay; and the foot of man has never entered it again! The fissure in the rocks has disappeared, covered with stones.
No one saw Mohammed go to this spot on the evening be fore his marriage with Ada. No one saw him, as with the strength of a giant he rolled huge stones to the opening, and piled them up before the grotto. Nor did any one see him, before he had done this, enter the grotto with bowed head and folded arms, as though approaching the holy mosque. Nor did the ear of man hear the groans and lamentations that escaped his breast as he lay thereon; the spot upon which the light of the moon and stars of heaven shone down through the opening above. There he lay, one entire night, and a whole world of suffering lay on his soul throughout that night. He wished, during those fearful hours, to rend from his heart the remembrance of all the anguish and all the bliss associated with that place in the past. Did he succeed? Who knows, who can tell?
All things pass away, and time heals all wounds.
Mohammed is a wealthy merchant, the husband of a charming, lovely woman, and the father of three strong, handsome boys, who look out boldly and defiantly into the world with their dark eyes, the picture of their father in earlier days.
How would Sitta Khadra rejoice could she see these boys!
Would she also rejoice if she could see her son gravely and silently attending to his duties, speaking with the men who come to see him, of tobacco, of good harvests, of future prospects, and of the success already achieved in his business?
Of other matters Mohammed never speaks, not even to his friend Lion, who often comes to see him. When Mohammed needs advice at times in his affairs, he seeks it of him; he listens smilingly when Lion tells him of what is going on in the world; and, without letting Mohammed perceive it, attentively observes him, endeavoring to read, in his grave, tranquil countenance, whether new feelings are awakening in his soul, whether the young merchant has really buried the former ambition of the youth.
But he detects nothing in that tranquil face; ambition sleeps, the love of glory is dead within him. This is Lion's opinion, and the opinion of all. But it is not the opinion of Osman, who understands him best. He has sometimes seen Mohammed's face lighten when the conversation was of the struggles going on in Egypt, or when the Turkish fleet was spoken of that had gone over to chastise the rebellious Mameluke beys! He had seen a deathly pallor overspread Mohammed's face when on a recent occasion a merchant, who came from Stamboul, reported that the grand-vizier had sent a great pacha to Egypt, one who had been banished, the now so mighty Cousrouf Pacha, the favorite of the grand-admiral. Yes, Osman had observed his change of countenance at the mention of this name, and that he secretly clinched his fists and grasped the hilt of his dagger; and he alone knew that, though Mohammed's wrath found no utterance, it still lived within him.
Mohammed had suddenly turned away on this occasion, on some suddenly-conceived pretext, and had not been seen again that day.
He had gone alone to the summit of the rock, and Osman alone knew that the dark speck which he saw on the crest of Bucephalus was the figure of his friend who had sought this solitude for the purpose, perhaps, of easing his heart of its anguish and to enjoy the holy festival of remembrance, up there alone with God and Nature!
CHAPTER III
THE BIM BASHI.
Mohammed's countenance was graver and paler than usual when he came down from Bucephalus. But it seemed that his heart had there received milder and softer impressions. He spoke to his wife in more gentle and cordial tones; and instead of repairing, as was his custom, to a coffee-house, where merchants assembled and exchanged their views and opinions, smoked the chibouque together, and discussed the news received from foreign countries, he remained at home in the family circle. At his request, Osman had come to pass the evening with them, for Mohammed well knew that this was the young man's only happiness. These ten years did not benefit Osman's health; he was still the withered stalk that bows its head, but is not torn down by the wind, but only swayed to and fro by it at its pleasure.
Yes, Osman was weak, and firm and constant in one thing only, in his love for his friend.
With him this feeling took the place of all else; Mohammed was to Osman what the latter was to his father—his only joy in life! And for these two Osman sustained himself, bore his ill health and suffering, and let the sunlight shine upon, and the storms of life sweep over him.
Osman understood why Mohammed was so kind and genial to-day. He knew that the day had its significance, and that the wound bled within secretly and incessantly. In silence Mohammed is praying for forgiveness, for having on this day permitted his thoughts to wander back to the past, for having sunk down in sadness upon the spot on the brow of the rock that had once witnessed his happiness; and he desires to be mild and gentle to his family this evening. His wife Ada is thankful and very happy. Mohammed so rarely laughs and jests with her, so rarely plays with the boys! To be sure he has never grieved her, has always been kind and gentle, and has never opposed her wishes. But yet she knows she has no share in his inmost heart. He talks with her of the daily affairs of life, he allows her to participate in all such matters, but he never speaks to her of his heart's inmost thoughts, and whether he suffers and longs to leave these desolate cliffs, or whether he is discontented with the monotonous, matter-of-fact life he is leading—she knows not! Mohammed has never complained to her, neither has he to his friend. But the latter has read his friend's heart, and understands it better than Mohammed himself. And a day was soon to come which proved this.
A message came from Stamboul. A large ship arrived at Cavalla, and her sailors related that a number of ships still larger and handsomer had arrived in the Bay of Sta. Marmara. The ship put out a boat, which came to the shore and landed a richly-attired officer who went up to Cavalla. He repaired to the palace and delivered a letter, secured with magnificent seals, to the tschorbadji. The letter was from Cousrouf Pacha to his host of former years. He had not been heard from since that time, and the tschorbadji had supposed himself long since forgotten. He was familiar with the ways of the great, whose lips are ever ready to utter promises, which are forgotten, the next hour. Ten years have elapsed, and but rarely have Cousrouf Pacha, his new grandeur, and the great things the future had in store for him, been heard of in Cavalla. And now a letter announces that Cousrouf Pacha still remembers, and gladly remembers, former days.
"The Sublime Porte has determined," so read the pacha's letter to the governor, "the Sublime Porte has determined to oppose the French occupation of Egypt with energy. The rich land of Egypt belongs to the Sublime Porte, and without any color of right France takes possession of it as its own property."
Yes, the republic of France had done this, had landed at Alexandria with large armies, and had inundated almost the whole of Egypt with its soldiers. But the Mameluke Beys, who have so long considered themselves the masters of the country, had taken the field and fought the invaders. In Stamboul, also, they had long been preparing for war, and now that all preparations were made, and an army ready to take the field against the French, each province, yes, each village of the empire, was to furnish its quota of soldiers in addition. Messengers had been sent out to every city and village in the empire to call on the young men in the name of the grand-sultan to flock to the flag to defend Egypt.
Cavalla was also to furnish its quota, and the pacha's instructions were, that the governor should with all speed uniform three hundred young men, and send them to him.
Cousrouf Pacha had, however, also written, "That the governor may see in what glad remembrance I hold the past, and that I am grateful, I request that his son Osman be placed at their head as captain, and come with them. And," continued the pacha, "as his lieutenant, young Mohammed Ali, if still living, may be serviceable. However, I suppose that his own violence and passion have consumed this young man, as he persistently labored at his own destruction. If this, how ever, is not the case, and his extraordinary strength of constitution has preserved him, the youth must have become a strong man, and we need such men for our army."
The governor informed Mohammed and his son of what the pacha had written. He requested Mohammed to assist him in recruiting and equipping the men, and Mohammed willingly gave his assistance. He repaired to Praousta and the neighboring places and assisted in the work. He soothed the displeasure of the men called on to take the field, spoke of the heroic deeds they could perform, and of the beautiful land to which they were to go, so distant from the quiet, desolate Praousta.
And in a few days the three hundred men were ready to embark. But how was it with regard to the captain and his lieutenant? Osman had reserved his decision for the last day, and Mohammed seemed to have entirely forgotten that he was selected as the captain's lieutenant. He had not spoken of it during these days; Cousrouf's mention of him seemed to have made no impression on him, and his attention appeared to have been directed wholly to the equipment of the soldiers. Now that all was in readiness, Osman sent his friend word to come to him, as he wished to converse with him on a matter of grave importance. Mohammed willingly acceded to this request and repaired at once to the garden-house, where, since the days of his childhood, a couch had at all times stood in readiness for the governor's poor, sickly son, and seated himself at his side, as he was in the habit of doing.
"You wished to see me about something, Osman. What is it?"
"What is it?" said Osman, with his softest smile, laying his hand on his friend's shoulder and regarding him fixedly. "Well, I should think you ought to know. Try to divine it!"
Mohammed slowly shook his head. "By Allah, I am ignorant what it is,
Osman!"
"Well," said the latter, smiling, "I wish to speak of our departure with the troops."
"What do you mean by that?"
"What do I mean? The pacha, Cousrouf, has appointed me captain of the three hundred soldiers, and you my lieutenant."
"He has done so, to be sure, but we of course decline the appointment," said Mohammed, shrugging his shoulders.
"And why?" asked Osman, with an expression of profound astonishment.
"Why? Well, my Osman, you surely cannot think of—"
"I understand you," said Osman, nodding his head; "you mean I cannot think of accepting any such position as it would beseem a man of my rank to hold. But I feel myself in better health; it seems as though the thought of such a possibility had given me new strength and energy. Who knows, perhaps, the luxurious, effeminate life I have always led is the great cause of my ill-health and weakness; a new or adventurous life may do me good. It is often said that the greater part of disease is mere imagination. If one shakes this off, he shakes his disease off with it. Therefore, I have decided to try this remedy myself. After full consideration, I have concluded to accept the position of captain of our troops."
"You are really in earnest!" exclaimed Mohammed, springing to his feet in alarm. "You will actually take this position of captain, go to the war, and leave as!"
"Leave us? " repeated Osman. "No, we two, of course, remain together, my friend. You go with me. You are selected as my lieutenant. You know Cousrouf Pacha added words of praise and acknowledgment for you, too."
Mohammed's eye glittered for a moment, but he looked down quickly. "Yes, he did this, and his conduct is very noble and generous, for he well knows that I do not love him, and that I was once his enemy."
"Once," repeated Osman, closely regarding his friend. "But that was a long while ago, and we have done with the dreams of our youth long since, have we not, Mohammed? What then was, has passed away. He no longer thinks of the childlike defiance you displayed toward him, the great pacha; and the sorrow and suffering he caused you are long since forgotten."
"Yes," replied Mohammed, in low tones, "yes, it is forgotten. All sorrow and suffering are over. You are right. All things pass away, and time heals all wounds-mine, too. They are healed. Cousrouf has forgotten the boy's defiance, as you say, and you observe that what I have suffered at his hands is also forgotten. But I shall not leave this place-I may not."
"You may and you shall," said Osman, and there was a more earnest and manly ring in his voice than Mohammed had ever before heard. "Do you not suppose, my boy, my beloved, my second self—do you not suppose that I read your soul, and know what is smouldering and lamenting in your inmost heart? Mohammed, I believe you do not wish to understand yourself. You have enveloped your heart in a veil which you do not wish to rend asunder, even before your own vision. But I, my Mohammed, can see through this covering, and know your heart's most secret thoughts. Be still—say nothing yet. First consider, and then give me a reply. Your Osman accepts the position, and it seems to me it would become his friend Mohammed to go with him where laurels, glory, and magnificence, are awaiting you. Look at me, my friend; look at the poor, frail body for which you are so necessary a support, and let us be silent about all the rest for the present. Yet do not forget that Osman loves you, and is ready to make any sacrifice for you. Say nothing now, Mohammed, but reflect on what I have said. And if you love me, and think you owe me your love, and wish to prove your friendship for me, accept the proffered position, and go out with me into the world. Go, and reflect about it, Mohammed, and, when you have decided, come to me with your answer."
Mohammed left the garden as his friend had asked him, the words "you must go with me where laurels, glory, and magnificence await you," resounding in his heart. He hears them everywhere, at home with his wife, in the midst of his family. And then the voice of reason would in its turn make itself heard: "You should not abandon the woman who rescued you from death, and has given you comfort, wealth, and position. You should not abandon the children, whom you are called on to instruct and protect."
"No, I ought not to go," he repeated to himself, as he sat down beside Ada, and called his children to him. "No, I must remain here."
And yet, again and again, Osman's words come back to him.
He could not bear to chat with his lips, while such voices were speaking in his heart. He must leave the house, seek solitude, and consult with his own thoughts. He made some pretence of pressing business requiring his attention, and went out into the street. He started to walk rapidly toward the spot on the rock, where he had so often sought solitude and consolation. Suddenly he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, he turned and saw the old Sheik of Praousta, the successor of Masa's father, who gave him a kindly greeting.
Mohammed always found pleasure with the old man of whom the people said that he had the gift of prophecy, and could read the future. Mohammed did not believe in this, but he did believe in his wisdom and experience of the world; and knew that much was to be learned from the old man, who had been a great traveller, and had now returned to his home to rest, to spend the evening of his days as Sheik of Praousta.
"How fares it with you?" repeated the sheik, fixing his large dark eyes on Mohammed in a kindly gaze.
"Well, my business affairs are prosperous."
The sheik shook his head. "It was not concerning such matters that I inquired. Ah, Mohammed, it is frequently well with our business affairs, and just the reverse with ourselves."
"Well, then, things go well with myself, also," replied Mohammed, but with averted gaze.
The old man shook his head. "I can read a man's thoughts on his forehead, Mohammed, and I tell you sad thoughts are inscribed on yours." And with another shake of the head he continued: "The governor has, as you know, raised a body of three hundred soldiers; Osman has been appointed their captain, and yourself his lieutenant."
"Cousrouf Pacha is a generous man," said Mohammed, in a peculiar tone. "He graciously forgets the days that have been."
"No, my son," said the sheik, "Cousrouf Pacha is a proud, cruel man, and he now wishes to show himself to those who saw him in those days when he was powerless, and an exile, in his grandeur and magnificence. You must know, my son, that oftentimes that which seems noble and generous, consists really only of vaingloriousness and love of display."
"I thank you for these words, O sheik," cried Mohammed, with a fierce gesture, "I thank you for having spoken from my soul. Young as I then was, I believe I thoroughly understood this man, and I am glad you interpret my thoughts so well."
"Mohammed," said the sheik, after a pause, "you must accompany your young friend Osman."
"Osman! no, that is impossible; how can Osman fill such a position?"
"He can," said the sheik, "for you, Mohammed, will accompany him."
"No, sheik, I shall not accompany him; I shall remain here."
"You will remain here, and why?"
"I have a wife and children," replied Mohammed, quickly, as if speaking to himself. "I cannot separate myself from them. I must not think of it; I have a home, a family, a prosperous business, and I live a peaceful life; why, therefore, O sheik, go out into the troubled world to end my days, perhaps, in misery? Here, I know what I am—a respected merchant, a favorite of the governor, the friend of his son, and I may boast of your friendship, too, sheik. Tell me, why should I subject myself to the tempest of life again, and go to Egypt to fight the unbelievers? The distance is great, the future beset with danger and difficulties; and here I have happiness, and an assured future."
"You are right; the distance is great, and your future one of danger and difficulties," replied the sheik. "Yes, therein you are right, but you are wrong when you determine not to go."
"Wrong—wrong, you say?"
"Yes, Mohammed, you are wrong; for, though the way is long and the future one of danger and difficulty, yet is the reward that awaits you, laurels and renown, glorious."
"Sheik, do not speak thus to me," cried Mohammed, "do not tempt me to do what I may repent; what may bring misfortune upon my wife and children. No, rather tell me to silence these voices that are ever resounding in my heart. Oh, do not tell me to make ambition the pursuit of my life."
"And yet I must do so," replied the sheik. "I tell you, you would act with great injustice if you should refuse to awaken the hero that slumbers in you, if you should condemn the warrior to inactivity, for the sake of the merchant. Allah himself would be displeased, Mohammed, for he has given you the capacity to perform great things, and implanted great thoughts and plans in your heart. And now the way is open to you, and you can carry out these plans. Therefore, when you see Osman again, tell him that you will go with him. And now, farewell, Mohammed; consult with your thoughts, and be strong."
Greeting Mohammed with a wave of his hand, the sheik turned and walked away, leaving his friend gazing after him in amazement.
The people are right: the sheik is a prophet; else how could he know what he had discussed with Osman that day, inducing him to consider the matter and give his decision by the following morning? But, then, if he is a prophet, he has also announced the truth and foretold the future. Very great things are in store for him, and the whole world of glory dreamed of in his youth lies open to him. This may then still be realized. No, Mohammed, deny yourself and be strong. Bow beneath the will of Allah; and it surely cannot be his will that you should forsake wife and children, but, rather, that you should remain patiently with them.
He returned to his house, but it was in vain that he endeavored to silence the voices that whispered in his heart.
With earliest dawn he arose noiselessly from the couch on which he had passed a restless night.
The sun has risen! Is it for the last time that he sees it mount above these cliffs? Perhaps! He ascends the mountain-rock, higher and higher. Now he stands still; he is approaching a consecrated spot!
Why should he come to this place now? His heart had never before permitted him to approach it since he had become Ada's husband. Why does he now long again to mount to the spot on which he had never stood after those days? Since then he has become a man and another being. There he had exchanged vows of eternal love with his Masa! There, all Nature heard him swear: "I love you alone, and no other woman shall ever stand at my side!"
The youth which had uttered these words died in him long ago. Mohammed Ali was now a man, had a wife, and children called him father; and the man had hitherto avoided treading on this consecrated ground. But now he is driven there by an irresistible longing!
He walks rapidly on, and is soon there.
He stands where he had stood with Masa; where he had called down imprecations on her head because he thought her faithless; where he had also listened in pious devotion to the holy revelation of her love.
Ten years have passed since then. What has remained of those hopes, and of that love?
His dreams have ended, and his illusions are dissipated.
"O Masa! and people call me a happy man. O Mother Khadra, look down into your son's heart! The voices I long since thought silenced forever, are again aroused—the voices of love and ambition. O mother, it is as though I saw you before me again, and heard you relate your dream! You saw your son standing upon the pinnacle of a palace, a sword uplifted in his hand, a crown encircling his brow, and you knew, mother, that this man with crown and sceptre, attired in purple, was your son; and this man transformed himself into an angel, and flew to you and kissed you. The man you beheld as a prince and hero, has again transformed himself, and this time into a miserable merchant. Nothing has remained to him of the prince, and angel, and hero; he is nothing more than a poor worm of earth!"
He cries out loudly and fiercely. All the anguish of former days, all the ungratified longings of the past, are again awakened, and, long pent up, now break forth in a fiery flood, and sweep away and burn to ashes all reason, all calm reflection, all the fruit of these ten long, desolate years of tranquility and patient industry.
After a struggle with himself, he arose, and a deep sigh, like a death-groan, escaped his breast.
It was his intention to go to Osman and say: "It is settled, I remain! I have just committed a murder on myself; I have killed Mohammed Ali, the eagle, as his mother called him, and there remains only the merchant Mohammed! He will creep on, composedly, over the surface of the earth, collecting tobacco, rolling it into great balls, and rejoicing when he finds his profit in so doing."
But it seemed as though his footsteps were clogged, as though an invisible hand held him back, and compelled him to remain a while longer on this spot where he had stood with Masa. And now it seemed to him that her form suddenly arose from her cold grave in the waves over there beyond the cliffs. She was arrayed in purple, her starlike eyes were fixed on him, and her long hair enveloped her beloved form as with a golden veil, the water dripping from her like glittering pearls. It gradually arose out of the waters. He had seen such visions, such fata morgana, that appeared not unfrequently on this coast, many a time, and had hitherto smiled at such illusions. But today he forgot his knowledge and experience, and the illusion was to him reality. He stretched out his arms, and gazed at the heavenly picture that had risen out of the waves, and his lips whispered in longing accents: "Masa, come to me; let the water that drips from you fall on my burning heart, soothe my anguish; speak to me of my future, and tell me what you desire me to do. Oh, speak to me, Masa!"
Enraptured, he still gazed out into the air at the sweet vision that rose higher and higher out of the waves. At last it stretched out its arms over him, and a cold breath kissed his lips! After a long pause, he opened his eyes again. Had he been dreaming? Was it reality? He lay on the rock alone in the morning light of the sun. The image had disappeared, and silence surrounded him, profound silence.
And in this silence Mohammed formed his last, his decisive resolve. As he lay there, he had entreated Allah to deliver him, by death, from this tormenting struggle, this doubt. The hour of irresolution had now passed, and he felt strengthened with renewed life. He looked up at the heavens; and a hitherto undreamed of world seemed to lie open before him. He looked out into the purple distance, and he seemed to be hold the minarets, and temples, and mountains, and plains of a new land. Was he never to reach this land? Were all the dreams of his youth to come to naught, and the prophecies made by the woman who had told his mother that he was to be a hero, to remain unfulfilled? And was Masa to remain unavenged in her cold grave? He has duties to fulfil toward wife and children. But revenge is also a sacred duty, and he has sworn to himself a thousand times, that he will perform this duty. Vengeance for Masa! Vengeance on him! The hour has come! Grasp the occasion! He may fail in his career, but, if successful, his success will be great, divine. It will be heavenly, if he must die, to fall on the field of battle amid the roar of artillery, and the clash of arms. Such a death were far preferable to a life like that he now leads, protracted through long, weary years. Who has brought about this struggle, and implanted these aspirations in his breast? It is Allah's work! In his early youth, his mother had told him of her dreams, and hope for her boy! Who was it that arose from the waves and permitted him to see in her dewy hand a sword and a crown! It was Masa, his Masa! These three, Allah, his mother, and Masa, have spoken to him, and Mohammed has heard and understood their words.
As he stands there on the verge of the cliff, gazing out into the distance, and listening to the sea murmuring at his feet, he now feels that he is the instrument chosen to do great deeds. He must obey Destiny, he must respond to the appeal of revenge, of honor, and of renown. And a threatening voice whispers in his soul: "Cousrouf Pacha, beware! You have called your judge yourself. Beware, the avenger will appear! You will not recognize him, for his countenance will smile, and his bearing will be soft and composed. You will not recognize him, but he will come. Beware, Cousrouf Pacha!"
Mohammed now turns to descend to Cavalla, and he feels himself a changed, a new man.
He slowly descended, his head erect, his breast swelling with a proud joyousness. The struggle is over, and the voice of anguish is forever stilled. Mohammed cones among men again another and a better man, and, before returning to his own house, he repairs to the palace of the tschorbadji, to seek his friend Osman.
When Osman saw him coming he smiled, nodded to him, and held out his hand.
"Well, my Mohammed, I see by your countenance that the struggle is over, and that Mohammed knows what future is in store for him."
Mohammed grasped his friend's hand warmly in his own, a bright smile lighting up his countenance.
"He at least knows, my Osman, what demands he intends to make of the future, and, if they are not accorded, he will at least know how to die gloriously."
CHAPTER IV
THE EMBARKATION.
"Is it then really true, Osman?" asked the governor, with tears in his eyes. "Have you resolved to leave me and assume command of the troops?"
"Yes, my dear father, I have. It is time I showed myself to be a man! And do you not think the uniform of a bim bashi will become me well; and that I, too, have some desire to parade in my finery before beautiful women, and be honored with their gracious looks?"
"You are jesting, my son," said the tschorbadji, sadly. "With a grave air your lips speak joyous words of which your heart knows nothing. No, you cannot deceive your father. It is not the uniform that charms you, nor has or can war have any thing attractive for you."
"You mean by that, father, that a sickly, weak man, like myself, can take no pleasure in military service. Believe me, it will make me healthier and stronger. I have been treated like an invalid long enough, and have not benefited by such treatment. Let us now defy fate and ill health. Moreover," he continued, after a short pause, "moreover, I have chosen Mohammed to be my companion, my lieutenant, in order that I might have a strong arm to lean on. With Mohammed at my side, I shall have no fear in the conflict. His presence will give me the needful strength. I tell you I feel stronger and better already. But now let me go and put on my uniform. And do you not think you will be proud of my soldierly appearance yourself when you walk down to the ship with me, and hear people whisper to each other: 'That is Osman! We would not have believed him to be so stately and strong a man!' Tell me, would this not gladden your heart?"
He nodded to his father, and without awaiting his answer turned and went hastily to his apartments, to put on his uniform.
The tschorbadji looked after him sadly.
"If I could only discover what secret purpose induces my son to play the soldier! I will ask Mohammed, and also request him to watch over my son."
He went down into the court-yard where Mohammed, dressed in the uniform of the boulouk bashi again, was engaged in drawing up his soldiers in rank and file, preparatory to marching them down to the harbor, where they were to embark. He beckoned to Mohammed to come into the hall, and laid his hand gently on his shoulder. "I can count on you, my friend, can I not?"
"Tschorbadji, you can count on me at all times, while life lasts!"
"You will watch over my Osman? " said he, in low tones. "You will not permit him to undertake that which his body is unable to bear, though his spirit be well equal to the task?"
"I will care for him as though he were my better self, as I would for the woman I love!" said Mohammed. "I well know that his spirit is strong, but his body is delicate. And therefore when he goes into danger, and I cannot prevent it, I will protect him unto death, with my own body! This I swear to you by Allah, and by my love for my friend Osman!"
"I thank you, Mohammed," said the tschorbadji, deeply moved. "My Osman is my only joy in life. You are a father, too, Mohammed, and you know how a father loves his child."
"I do, tschorbadji," replied he, "and as a father I beg you to look after my children sometimes. You are related to them through their mother; shield and protect them, and if the news should come that destiny has been unfavorable to me, or favorable if you will, and I shall have fallen on the field of battle, think of this moment, and watch over my boys! They will be well provided for, as far as the goods of this world are concerned. I have made over all I possess, and all I have earned since I began my business, to my wife; from this hour all that was mine is hers. I take nothing out into the world with me; I will enter it as a new man. It all came from my wife, and it is now restored to her. I am going out into the world a new man, but the old love will remain here in Cavalla with my wife and with you, and it will accompany me in the person of my beloved Osman. You need have no fear on our account. While I live, Osman shall be protected and watched over."
While they were conversing in the hall, Osman was put ting on the uniform of the bim bashi. His faithful slaves were assisting him, and rejoiced in his magnificence; and as he now stood before them in his gold-embroidered uniform, his too slender waist encircled with a broad leather girdle, from which dangled his sword with its golden hilt, and to which his two pistols, with jewelled stocks, were attached, his slaves cried out with delight, and fell on their knees and kissed his feet.
He told them to rise and to get themselves ready, as these two faithful servants were to accompany him.
When they had gone, Osman sank down upon his cushions exhausted.
"0 Allah, give me strength sufficient to walk down to the shore with the appearance of health.-Be strong, poor, weak breast, suppress your pain until I have reached the ship!—Make me strong, Allah, until my aim is attained, until I have proved to my friend that I love him."
Hearing footsteps approaching, he sprang to his feet and assumed a cheerful and composed manner, as his father and Mohammed came in and announced that all was in readiness for their departure, and that the soldiers were only waiting for their bim bashi to march down to the shore.
"I, however, my bim bashi, have come with a request," said Mohammed, quickly, "and I hope he will not refuse his boulouk bashi's first request. I beg you, Osman, to go with your father in advance to the shore, and take up your position there. I will then follow with the soldiers, and pass with them in review before you. This is appropriate, and you must al low the boulouk bashi and the soldiers to show you these honors."
"If such is the custom, then let it be so," said Osman, smiling.—
"Let us now go, father, as Mohammed requests."
"But I also have a request to make, my son," said the tschorbadji. "I have met with an accident: in crossing the court-yard I sprained my ankle slightly, and I cannot walk, as it pains me. You must therefore do me the kindness to al low yourself to be carried down with me in the palanquin. It will excite no surprise; the soldiers saw me when the accident occurred, and no one will suppose it is on your account."
"It seems to me, father," replied Osman, gravely, "that the bim bashi should walk down, and await his soldiers standing."
"And he shall," said his father, quickly. "Below he shall await his soldiers, standing, while the poor tschorbadji must remain seated in his palanquin.-Oh, the pain! Let me support myself on your arm, Mohammed! You have no idea how my foot hurts!"
Osman averted his face, that they might not see the tears that stood in his eyes. He discerned, only too well, that they both knew his weakness and were tenderly caring for him!
But, in spirit at least, he must be a man, and he turns and looks at them firmly and composedly.
"Then come, father. I will go down with you in the palanquin."
The slaves and servants saw the tschorbadji, supported by Mohammed, limp to the palanquin; Osman followed them with firm footstep, his head proudly erect. The people rejoiced in his stately appearance, and in the glittering uniform that became him so well.
Osman was carried down to Praousta at his father's side. The fishermen, who stood there awaiting him, greeted the young bim bashi with loud huzzas. They wished him happiness and success in his military career.
Osman thanked them in a loud, clear voice, and no one knew what pain the effort cost him. Arrived at the shore, he stepped out of the palanquin with an appearance of joyous haste, and took up his position beside his father to receive from the soldiers, who were now approaching, Mohammed at their head, the military honors. And now the hour of leave taking had arrived. The admiral's boat had come to convey the bim bashi to the ship. The tschorbadji insisted on accompanying his son on board, and seated himself beside him in the boat into which the slaves and servants who were to go with Osman now also entered.
Mohammed had declined to go with them to the vessel. The soldiers must first be embarked, and the boulouk bashi will be the last to leave the shore, for this the military law requires.
The boats were soon filled with the soldiers, and the bay, covered with all kinds of skiffs, boats, and barks, now presented a very gay, lively spectacle. The entire population of Praousta and Cavalla were assembled on the shore to witness the embarkation.
Ada and her boys had also come down, and were gathered around the husband and father to take leave of him; beside them stood Mohammed's old friend, the merchant Lion. As the boats now began to put off from the shore, Mohammed took his wife's hand and led her aside, away from the others.
"Ada, my wife," said he, "I bid you a last farewell!"
She sobbed beneath her veil, and tears poured in streams from her eyes.
"You weep on my account," said he; "that proves that I have at least not made my wife unhappy, and that she is not glad to be alone."
"Ah, Mohammed," murmured she, "happy have you made me, and I owe you thanks for many glad years!"
"And I thank you for these words," said he, gently. "I will take them with me as an amulet to protect me without, in the world. Think of me, and watch over my children. Care for them, and do not let them become the drones or drudges of existence. Remember that their father is a soldier, and that he remains one to the end! Raise my children with reference to this! Have them instructed, Ada, for my sons must not come as ignorant soldiers to my army!"
"To your army?" exclaimed Ada, regarding him in astonishment—"your army?"
He started; his inmost thoughts had for a moment escaped his lips. "The army in which I serve!" said he, quickly. "Have my boys taught to read and write; this is necessary, believe me. And now, farewell, and receive my thanks for all the beautiful days and years which you have sought to bless me with!"
He did not say, "which you have blessed me with." He did not wish to take leave of her with a falsehood on his lips, and his eye glanced over toward the place where Masa had sunk beneath the waves. There lay his happiness buried, and from that grave it had never risen. Ada knew it not, he had never complained, and never seemed discontented; she had thought him happy. His love and thirst for revenge had hitherto slumbered, but now they were awakened to new life. He would have vengeance on him who had murdered her he loved, and heaped insult upon himself! He is now going out into the world, where he must meet Cousrouf Pacha, and on him will he wreak vengeance for all his wrongs and sufferings! Yes, his Masa, his white dove, shall be avenged!
With such thoughts, Mohammed enters the boat that rapidly conveys him to the ship where Osman stands on the deck awaiting him.
"Welcome, Mohammed! We are on the road to honor and renown!"
"Yes, my Osman, to honor and renown," responded Mohammed.
"And may Allah's blessing accompany you!" said the tschorbadji, holding his son in his arms in a farewell embrace. He then enters the boat that awaits him, and is rowed back to the shore.
Osman stands on the deck beside his friend; the soldiers stand around, silent and respectful in the presence of their bim bashi, and now the farewell gun is fired.
The governor, Ada, and the merchant, who stand in a group on the shore, wave their handkerchiefs: "Farewell, farewell!"
Mohammed turns to Osman. "Be joyous, my friend! We have done with the past, and a brilliant future awaits us! Look, there rests my Masa, and, I tell you, a monument prouder and grander than was ever erected to woman, shall rise over her grave! The whole sea shall be her monument, and on the coast of Egypt will I erect one to my Masa, to my love, and my revenge!"
CHAPTER V
THE CAMP AT ABOUKIR.
THE life of the Mameluke beys had for months been a continuous festival. Nothing but pleasure and festivity; nothing but assurances of love and friendship on the part of their former enemies, the Turks.
Since the hated Franks, after so many struggles, so many defeats and fruitless shedding of blood, had embarked in their proud ships and returned to Europe, the prospects for peace in the land that was bleeding from a thousand wounds seemed to be bright. Friends and enemies had made these wounds; friends and enemies had torn the once fair form of the beautiful land of the Pharaohs, and converted it into a hideous corpse.
The battle-fields of Aboukir, the Pyramids of Gheezeh, the blood- soaked fields of Syria, the overthrown walls of St. Jean d'Acre, and of the magnifient city of the caliphs, Cairo, tell of the French general, Bonaparte, who, at the head of his army, had entered upon a crusade in order to bless Egypt with civilization. This was his pretext. He intended, with his sans culottes, to carry civilization to the Orient, and, not being able to convert them to Christianity by persuasion or, trickery, he determined to baptize them with blood.
At first the Mameluke beys, who until then had ruled in Egypt, and had, in protracted struggles, endeavored to cast off their allegiance to the grand-sultan, had supposed it would be an easy matter to drive back the French barbarians from the yellow shores of Africa.
Mourad Bey, the chief of all the Mameluke beys, was sitting at a joyous banquet in Alexandria, when several of his officers rushed into the hall to announce that a number of ships were entering the harbor, and that a body of Franks had already landed. The Mameluke chieftain laughed, and, without rising from his seat, said to the messengers, "Give these French beggars a bakshish, and tell them to clear out, or Mourad Bey will compel them to do so."
"But," observed the English consul, who had just entered the hall, "excellency, these Franks have come to possess themselves of Egypt. Hasten to make preparations for your defence."
Mourad Bey laughed again. "You take a gloomy view of things, my friend.—Go and give these wretches something to eat, and, as I have already ordered, a little money also, and then advise them to depart with all speed, or I will have them driven off by my servants."
But the Franks were not to be driven off so easily. They were bringing civilization, the glory of the French Republic, to Egypt, and were determined to make them happy by force. The republic at home had become too small for the great general. "Europe is a mere mole-hill," he had said; "there never were great kingdoms and great enterprises elsewhere than in the Orient, where six hundred million people live!"
And it was indeed a great enterprise that Bonaparte wished to attempt in Egypt, and great things be really did accomplish there. So great were they, that General Kleber, in secret his enemy and rival, could nevertheless not refrain from saying, after one of the victories:
"You are as great, Bonaparte, as the world, but the world is too small for your glory!"
And yet a day had come when the man who was too great for the world had to make himself small before the victorious Mameluke beys, when he secretly, accompanied by a few faithful followers only, departed from Egypt to return to the mole-hill Europe, to seek a crown for himself there. Bonaparte had left behind, in want and misery, the army that had suffered so much, not only from battle and disease, but also from the cruelty of its leaders. Was it not at Jaffa that Bonaparte caused the sick and wounded to be poisoned, in order to shorten their sufferings? And one other deed of cruelty of the general of civilization, who had gone to Egypt to confer happiness upon the unbelievers, stands recorded in the books of history. Was it not in Egypt that the French general caused the prisoners of war who had surrendered to General Desaix to be led down to the seashore and shot, contrary to the usages of warfare? Four thousand Arabian soldiers were assassinated in this manner. This was one of the monuments of civilization erected by the French general in the Orient! And the revolt in Cairo, the massacre of so many French soldiers, and the hatred of the whole people, was the harvest reaped by Bonaparte for this bloody deed.
"Death to the Franks!" was the cry of every Egyptian—the cry that was common to the Mameluke chieftain and the lowest fellah.
"Death to the Franks!" murmured the sheiks and ulemas with each prayer. And when Bonaparte had secretly fled, this ominous cry resounded through all Egypt—"Death to the Franks!"
General Kleber, Bonaparte's successor, was the first victim sacrificed. At Cairo, on the grand square of the Esbekieh, under the large sycamore at a corner of the harem of one of the Mameluke beys, he was stricken down by the dagger of a fanatical Turk. And now terror and dismay possessed itself of the whole army, and not only were the Egyptians glad when the command came from Europe that the French soldiers should embark, but the latter also esteemed themselves happy when, from the decks of their ships, they saw the yellow coast of Africa gradually disappear. Since then, bright, happy days seemed to have come again for the proud Mameluke beys, and happiness appeared to dawn again over the stricken land. The English, who, off the coast of Egypt, had destroyed the French ships, their armada, were now masters of the situation. They united themselves with the Mameluke beys, and undertook to mediate between them and the Turkish ruler.
"Egypt is to be blessed with peace, and they who have so long contended with each other in bitter hostility are to extend their hands to each other. Let recognition be accorded to the Mameluke beys, and favorable conditions of peace offered them, and they will submit." This Lord Balan had announced to the grand-sultan, and his first servant, the grand-vizier, at Stamboul. And he had gone to and fro, from Cairo to Stamboul, from Stamboul to Cairo, until peace was at last, as it seemed, secured.
"The Mameluke beys," so read the last decision of the grand-sultan, Selim II., "are to leave Cairo and to go to Upper Egypt, where large tracts of land are to be assigned them, with their wives, their treasures, and their servants, to rule there in freedom and magnificence."
The Mamelukes took these propositions into favorable consideration; they were weary of bloodshed and longed for the peaceful desert plains and for the sunny tents, where they could rest from their long struggles in quiet comfort, listen to the songs of the female slaves, and gaze at the voluptuous dances of the almehs. Yes, they will return home to the beloved south, to the cataracts of the Nile, to the sunny shores where the temple ruins of by-gone magnificence stand out against the deep blue sky.
Yes, they longed for peace, and for the sublime stillness of the desert; they consented to Lord Balan's proposition, and declared themselves ready to meet the servants of the sultan, and arrange with them the boundaries of the tracts of land that were to be assigned to them, and to conclude peace. They had, therefore, in response to the invitation of the Turks, come out to the peninsula of Aboukir. There, on the wide plain that had three years before been drenched with the blood of the French and the Egyptians, now stood the stately tents of the Turks and the Mamelukes.
It was a splendid spectacle, the wide plain with its array of gayly- decorated tents, with its great squares, on which the Mamelukes mounted on their proud steeds, displayed their skill with the spear and the gun, exciting the admiration of the Turks by their skill and agility.
All was festivity, and life was enjoyed as though it were an uninterrupted chain of pleasures. Yet there were some who felt less contented than these Mameluke beys, some who had learned from the French that promises and assurances of friendship were not always to be relied on.
Many of the beys had brought their wives with them, for the wives of the beys enjoyed greater liberty than those of the Turks, and they could move about among the tents, with as little constraint as in the streets of Cairo. The Mameluke honors his bey's wife, and bows down in the dust before her, when she passes by with head erect and veiled countenance, followed by her slaves.
On this, the fourteenth day of their sojourn at Aboukir, the Mamelukes also bow profoundly before a woman who, followed by two servants, is passing down between the double row of tents, and whisper to each other: "This is the wife of our greatest chieftain, the deceased Mourad Bey! How does it happen that she has left her beautiful palace in Cairo? For what purpose has Sitta Nefysseh come to Aboukir?"
And when she had passed, the Mamelukes raised their heads and followed with their eyes the white form as it swept on between the tents, and observed with astonishment that Mourad Bey's widow had stopped at the tent of the bey who was now their first chief, at the tent of Osman Bey Bardissi. Mourad's widow, and those who accompanied her, entered this tent.
He lay on the divan, smoking his chibouque. But upon her appearance at the entrance to the tent, he sprang to his feet.
"You here, Sitta-you in the camp at Aboukir?"
"I have come to speak with you," she replied, earnestly.—"Let the rest leave the tent. Mourad's widow can be alone with the man whom her deceased husband called his dear friend."
He waved his hand imperiously, and all the servants with drew from the tent, closing the gold-embroidered curtains behind them.
"Speak!" said the bey, in deferential tones. "Your servant hears, and is ready to obey your commands."
"I have not come to command," replied she; "I have come to warn you,
Osman."
"To warn me, Sitta?"
"Yes, Osman. You have allowed yourselves to be deceived by the flattering words of those who call themselves your friends, but can never be other than your enemies. Do you suppose that the sultan will ever give you, his hated enemies—you, the haughty Mameluke beys-your rights and your freedom? I, who gazed in my dying Mourad's eyes and read his last thoughts, I say to you, that the sultan will not rest until death has closed your lips forever, or until you have closed his! I tell you they are planning your destruction. Do not ask from what source my information comes. The wise man will listen and take the advice of the woman who was his friend's wife. Demand this very day, that, after these long-continued festivities, the grave matters that call you here be immediately proceeded with; demand that the conditions on which the sultan is to make you free and independent in Upper Egypt be plainly stated. And if they will not name them, then embark in your boats before the sun sets, and return to Cairo; for, believe me, there alone will you be safe! I come to you in the name of Destiny, by whom I have been warned! My lord and master appeared to me last night in a dream, showed me his bleeding wounds, and said to me: 'Go and save my friends. Say to them that the last battle has not yet been fought at Aboukir, and tell them that, if they do not hasten to depart, the waves that encircle Aboukir will soon be reddened with their blood, as was the said of Aboukir a few years ago!' And therefore have I come, O Osman, to warn you! Put away from you your confidence in these treacherous Turks. Do not hearken to the whisperings of the English men, do not rely on the promises of your enemies. Require a decision this very day, and if it is not given, depart at once, before the setting of the sun. Danger threatens you all, great, fearful danger."
"Impossible, Sitta!" replied Osman Bey, composedly. "Impossible! We cannot depart to-day, and the decision cannot be made now. But I have already demanded it, and they have promised that these matters shall be arranged in the course of a few days."
"In the course of a few days!" repeated Sitta. "You have warned your enemies yourself, Osman! They have observed that distrust has begun to bud in your hitherto trusting heart, and with their swords and daggers they will destroy the tender plant in its first growth. By Allah, I conjure you, and by your love for my husband, be on your guard; leave the peninsula, and return to Cairo!"
"If it were possible, Sitta, I would do it out of reverence for you. But on the morrow, I promise you, I will return to the continent. To-morrow, a festival takes place in Alexandria; Lord Balan, the English general, is to receive his troops there, and the capitan pacha, who is encamped here with his warriors, has invited us to participate in the festivities at Alexandria."
"Beware, oh beware, Osman!" cried Sitta Nefysseh, extending her arms toward heaven. "By Allah and the prophets, I conjure you, go not to sea with the Turks to-morrow! Listen to my words, Osman! I have devoted servants with those whom you call your friends, but who can only be your enemies. One of them has informed me of their purpose. Before the harbor of Alexandria lies a Turkish fleet; it lies in wait for you, and your boats will not be allowed to land unless freighted with your dead bodies!"
"This is not possible," cried the bey, recoiling a step in dismay. "They cannot have planned so fearful a deception! They cannot be so faithless! Are they not of our religion; were the prophet's words not spoken for them as for us? Do they not know that it is written in the Koran: 'Let a man hold his word sacred! Curses and shame upon him who bears a lie on his lips, and yet seals it with the name of Allah and the prophet!' No, Sitta, I tell you the capitan pacha sealed his vow of friendship with the name of Allah and the prophet, and the settlement of the details only was wanting to establish this bond of friendship forever. No, Sitta, it is impossible that they should contemplate such fearful treachery, and rather will I die a victim of such treachery than cowardly flee, than consider men cowards, and warriors scoundrels!"
"Then you and yours are going to your death, Osman Bey Bardissi!" cried Nefysseh in tones of anguish. "I conjure you once more, be warned, and, if you will not depart today, at least do not follow the capitan pacha to the festival, but employ the time while he is absent in preparing to defend yourselves. And, when they return, refuse to allow them to land until they consent to come to you unarmed."
Osman Bey shook his head proudly; and his countenance, before troubled, was now radiant with courage and joy. "Sitta Nefysseh, your noble heart is concerned for your friends, and I thank you in the name of all of us. But what your womanly sensitiveness fears, Osman Bey may not fear, and he must not show the Turks that he distrusts them! Allah watches over us all, and his will must be fulfilled! Why should we fear?"
"Yet Allah often warns us in our dreams, and woe to us if we do not interpret them aright!" said Sitta Nefysseh, in tones of entreaty. "You insist, then, on going to Alexandria to-morrow?"
"It is so determined, Sitta, and a man keeps his word!" His arms folded on his breast, he bowed down profoundly before her, and kissed the hem of her flowing gold-embroidered dress.
"Then may Allah accompany you! " said she, with a profound sigh. "But let me say one thing more. When you behold my husband Mourad, up there, among the blessed, standing under the green flag of the prophet, say to him: `Your wife has done her duty, she gave Osman the warning! She is innocent of our death!' and say to him also that his wife remains faithful to him in all things, and that she will love him alone throughout life. And now, farewell, Osman Bey Bardissi, and think of me in your death-hour!"
She raised her hands as if in a blessing, and then turned slowly away, drew aside the curtain, and stepped out of the tent to where her slaves and eunuchs awaited her.
Slowly she walked down the pathway between the tents, towing to the right and to the left to the Mamelukes, who threw themselves down before her in profound reverence. But when she passed by the tents of the Turks she veiled her countenance more closely, and her eyes glanced angrily through the delicate fabric.
"Traitors are they all!" murmured she, as she entered the tent where she dwelt with the women of Cousrouf, the second Mameluke chieftain. "Yes, traitors, and our Mamelukes will be their victims! Yet I will endeavor to save as many of them as possible!"
While Sitta Nefysseh sat sorrowing on her cushion, paying but little attention to the songs which the slaves sang, and to the dances with which they sought to entertain their mistress, the joyous festivities of the Mamelukes and Turks were still going on. Osman Bey had promised to show his horsemanship to-day; and it was a beautiful spectacle to see him coursing along on his splendidly- caparisoned black charger, his sword uplifted in his hand. His eyes sparkled even more lustrously than the gems in the agraffe of the crescent on the sultan's turban. In the sash that encircled his waist glittered a pair of pistols and the jewelled hilt of a dagger, and whoever beheld Osman Bey said to himself:" This is a man! a hero who recoils from nothing!" Lightly bounding, his nostrils expanded, his eyes glowing, he now rode his steed around the wide circle of Mamelukes and Turks. With uplifted sword he then approached the horse that stood tied to a stake in the middle of the circle. Trembling, and neighing anxiously, it saw the hero bearing down upon it at a full gallop; then Osman's sword glittered in the air, and the horse's head fell to the ground, severed from the body by a single blow. Loud and exulting shouts rewarded the bold rider for this proof of his wonderful skill and strength, and Osman bowed smilingly to the right and to the left, and then again drew in his reins, and made his steed bound as lightly and coquettishly as though it had learned its arts from the bayaderes.