CHAPTER XI
MOHAMMED ALI AND BARDISSI.
Sitta Nefysseh was right: peace had not entered Cairo with the victorious troops. War and turmoil prevailed everywhere, and the confusion became worse each day.
The Mamelukes now ruled once more in Cairo, and, with them, Mohammed
Ali, Bardissi's beloved friend.
Ismail Bey sat enthroned in the citadel, and was the outward representative of the magnificence and grandeur of the Mamelukes, but the real rulers were Bardissi and Mohammed Ali. And these two found no pleasure in lying on soft cushions, and speaking of the deeds of the past. They longed for renewed activity, for new glory! And, even if this had not been the case, they would, nevertheless, have been compelled to draw the sword again. For the Turks were marching out from Alexandria, and many places in the south were still in their hands.
Mohammed and Bardissi's united forces march out to a succession of conflicts, ever returning to Cairo crowned with victory.
Bardissi and Mohammed are united in love and friendship, and, though the former seems to be the ruler, the latter reigns in reality. The whole city is aware of this, and those who have complaints to make, and seek redress, come not to Bardissi, but to Mohammed Ali. To him, also, come the consuls of other countries, of England and France, and have long and protracted interviews with him.
The object of their meetings is known to no one. Their conferences are always private, and Bardissi learns of them only what Mohammed chooses to tell him. "Does he tell him the truth?"
Bardissi is convinced that he does, and also convinced that he and
Mohammed are in perfect accord with each other.
Ismail, the Mameluke chief, is of a different opinion, and often warns the magnanimous Osman Bey Bardissi.
"Be on your guard against Mohammed Ali; he has evil designs. Be on your guard!"
Bardissi shakes his head. "Do not attempt to rob me of my friend, my second self. I love him, and I know that he loves me!"
"He will lead us all to destruction, if he can!" said Ismail, solemnly. "Mohammed Ali is not the faithful friend you suppose him to be ! Unfortunately, the future will prove to you that my warning was well founded."
Bardissi disregards the warning, and angrily affirms Mohammed's fidelity. He can confide in his friend, and in the wisdom of his counsel. And, as before, Bardissi continues to follow Mohammed's advice in all things.
CHAPTER XII
AGAINST THE MAMELUKES.
While the Mameluke beys, Ismail and Bardissi, were victorious at Cairo, L'Elfi Bey still lay with his followers at Nisibis. There he ruled, and there his Mamelukes robbed, plundered, and tyrannized over the inhabitants.
The governor, Courschid Pacha, was again firmly established in Alexandria, where he was assembling new forces, and preparing to march against Cairo and the Mamelukes, and also against Mohammed Ali and his Albanians and Armenians; he only awaited the sultan's decision. He had sent to Stamboul intelligence of all that had occurred—of Cousrouf's flight, and of his defeat and capture at Damietta.
"Who is now to be appointed viceroy?" This was the question to be decided at Stamboul.
"Do you command, O master, that our troops march against Cairo to drive out the Mamelukes, and reinstate Cousrouf as viceroy! Command, O master, and your servants will obey!"
While the Turks were awaiting an answer from Stamboul, affairs in Cairo were becoming more and more complicated, and law and order no longer reigned there. The Mamelukes were daily becoming more violent and overbearing. They roamed through the city in bands, plundering and burning, and the beys could no longer control them. Daily the sufferings of the people became greater, and their hatred of the lawless Mamelukes more intense.
Robbed and outraged as they were, they were, in addition, continually being called on to pay new taxes to their detested rulers.
The Mameluke beys, Bardissi and Ismail, need money, need it more than ever. But where are they to get it? The question is a perplexing, a tormenting one, and with dismay Bardissi submits it to his faithful friend and untiring adviser, the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali.
And it was Mohammed who continually advised the imposition of new taxes, and who was constantly engaged with Bardissi in devising new means of raising money; and the imposition of each new burden was the signal for a new cry of rage from the oppressed people. The soldiers, too, began to murmur again, and to loudly demand their long-withheld pay.
The Albanians and Armenians, subject to Mohammed Ali, were held by him in severe discipline. He did not allow his soldiers to make thieves and robbers of themselves. He threatened with instant death all who should be caught in the act. They, however, clamored all the more loudly for pay.
Mohammed listened to them quietly, and seemed to be touched by their complaints. "But," said he, sadly, "it does not rest with me to pay you, neither can I do so. I am poor myself; I have nothing to live on but my pay, and that is withheld from me also. I therefore have, unfortunately, nothing to give my soldiers. Only the chiefs, Ismail or Bardissi, can give you your pay."
His soldiers have understood him. They salute their sarechsme, go away, and say nothing.
Mohammed well knows where the swarm of soldiers that had stood before his house have now gone, led by their bim bashis.
They rush, their numbers increasing on the way, to the house where Bardissi resides. With loud cries they demand to speak with Bardissi himself.
He appears, and asks why they have come. The vestibule of the palace is already crowded with soldiers, and new masses are continually pouring into the court-yard. In reply to Bardissi's question, they all cry loudly: "We have come for our pay! We want money! We are hungry! We want our pay, our money!"
"Go back to your quarters, and remain there, quietly!" cries
Bardissi. "In two days you shall have your pay. Go!"
"We will wait no longer!" cries a bim bashi, and they all cry after him: "We want our money! We will not leave here until we are paid!"
They press farther and farther into the house, more and more fiercely demanding their pay. Suddenly, a loud, firm voice resounds from the court-yard: "What does this mean, soldiers? What are you doing here? How dare you force your way into the palace of the chief?"
A smile lights up Bardissi's countenance. This is his friend
Mohammed Ali. He will extricate him from his embarrassing position.
Yes, it is he, the sarechsme, at whose approach the men respectfully fall back and make room. He enters the palace and hastens to Bardissi.
"Oh, forgive me! I knew not that my soldiers had dared to come here. They also came to me and demanded their pay; I had none to give them, yet I had no idea they would go so far as to annoy you personally."
Bardissi makes no reply. He only looks at his friend, and grasps his hand warmly.
"I thank you, Mohammed, for having come."
"It is my duty, Bardissi," replies he, loud enough to be understood by all his soldiers. "Yes, it is the duty of the sarechsme to be identified with his soldiers; and if, impelled by their want, they went too far, I beg for their forgiveness; but I also beg that justice be done them; and their demands are just. They are in great want, for I have forbidden them to rob and plunder. They have long waited patiently for their pay. But I beg you to give it them now, Bardissi."
The soldiers who had heard all, cried loudly: "Long live our sarechsme! Long live Bardissi, our chief!"
"Believe me, soldiers, he will give you your pay!—Will you not,
Bardissi?"
"Yes, sarechsme, your soldiers shall receive their pay. I give you my word, they shall be paid to-morrow. Come to the citadel, to my defterdar to-morrow morning, and he will pay you."
"You have heard it, soldiers: you are to be paid to-morrow. And now go!"
But no one moved; they stood still, grumbling in low tones.
"What," cried the sarechsme, with sparkling eyes, "you dare to remain when I have told you to go! Do you distrust the promise of Osman Bey Bardissi, and of your general? Go, I tell you! You are to be paid to-morrow. Therefore, go and wait!"
They no longer dare to defy, and quietly withdraw.
Bardissi grasps his friend's hand again. "I thank you. You have freed me from much embarrassment; you have done me a great service. But I beg you to lend me your kindly assistance still further. Tell me where am I to get the money with which to pay the soldiers to- morrow?"
"To-morrow? Why trouble yourself about to-morrow? I will endeavor to keep the soldiers quiet for a few days, and, in the meanwhile, we will devise new plans for raising money. I know of one means that I have often thought of."
"Name it, my friend!"
"It is dangerous."
"Name it, nevertheless. No matter about the danger, provided I raise money."
"Well, then," said Mohammed, deliberately, "it seems unjust to me that our people should bear the burden of taxation alone! Why should not a tax be imposed on the Franks and Levantines also?"
"On the foreigner?" said Bardissi, with a start. "That has never been done, that I am aware of."
"Then let it be done now for the first time. They have been allowed to accumulate wealth here, without bearing any of the burdens of government."
"You are right: it should be done. My defterdar shall take the necessary steps at once. The Levantines and Franks shall be made to pay this very day, and your soldiers shall have the money."
Bardissi hastily departed to give the necessary instructions.
Mohammed Ali returned slowly to his house, a complacent smile on his countenance. "Only continue in your present course, and you will soon fall into the pit I have dug for you and yours. Proceed! Your new tax will create quite a sensation!"
He was right. The new tax did create a sensation.
Bardissi's officials flew from house to house, levying a contribution of five hundred sequins from each Frank and Levantine.
Their demands were met everywhere with violent opposition, and caused general dismay. All the consuls repaired to the citadel, to Bardissi, to protest, in the names of their respective countries, against this unexpected outrage. Bardissi turned a deaf ear to their protests and entreaties. He thought only of his empty coffers, and of the necessity of paying the soldiers on the following day. Nothing could induce him to retract his action. The collection of the tax was enforced, and the money extorted from the foreigners. The consuls, however, incensed at the outrage, and resolved not to submit to such treatment, left Cairo in a body, followed by their entire households, to repair to Alexandria to take up their residence there. But, during the night preceding their departure, the French consul had a long private conference with Mohammed Ali.
What passed at this interview no one knew. At daybreak Mohammed accompanied the consul to the door of his house, and, in taking leave of him, said in a low voice: "Only wait. The fruit is ripe and will soon fall. Tell Courschid Pacha I am working for him, and am still the sultan's faithful servant. Though it seem otherwise, I am still working for him. Be assured, I shall act promptly when the time for action comes."
On the following morning the defterdar gave the troops half their pay, the sum raised by the tax imposed on the foreigners not being sufficient to liquidate the whole amount. The soldiers, however, were not satisfied with receiving half their pay, and went away grumbling. This gave only temporary relief, and soon the whole army was dissatisfied, clamoring for pay and ripe for revolt.
New taxes had to be imposed, and the burden fell upon the hapless people. The tax-gatherers made their circuit again, and mercilessly collected the tax, in spite of the opposition and lamentations of the sorely-oppressed people. If they refused to pay, the amount was raised by selling their houses. The enraged, despairing people no longer grumbled, but rushed howling and crying in dense masses to the Mosque El-Ayar, declaring that they would rather die than longer endure such outrages.
The monster-rebellion-raises its head again, and the uproar of revolt rounds through all Cairo.
The cadis and sheiks hasten to the mosque to use their influence in tranquillizing the people, but in vain. The only response to their representations is, "We cannot, we will not pay more!"
The vast hall of the mosque resounds with their lamentations and cries of rage. Suddenly Mohammed Ali, followed by a few of his soldiers, appears on the threshold. In a loud voice he begs the people to disperse; in Bardissi's name he promises that the collection of the new tax shall not be enforced. He had gone to Bardissi and entreated him to torment the people no longer, and Bardissi had yielded to his entreaties.
"Repair quietly to your homes, and fear no longer for your property. I interceded for you, and Bardissi gave me his solemn promise that the tax should not be enforced."
The spacious mosque resounds with shouts of delight. The people cry, "Long live Mohammed Ali!" All rush forward to grasp his hand and assure him of their friendship and devotion.
Mohammed feels that he has won the people by his shrewd course. Those who meet him in the streets salute him with reverence and devotion, and call down blessings on his head. When they meet the Mameluke beys, they look down and knit their brows; they have made themselves odious to the people, and are hourly becoming more and more detested by them. The thunder-clouds are gathering rapidly on the heads of the Mameluke beys. They see the coming storm in the angry looks of those who approach them; they feel it in the solitude that surrounds them. Curses are invoked upon their heads by the people, and not blessings, as upon Mohammed Ali's head.
Mohammed quietly prepares for the future; nothing is left to accident. No unlooked—for event must break in upon his plans, and destroy him with the rest. Let the fruit fall when ripe, and fall so deep into the abyss that no hand can pluck it thence!
The consuls have left Cairo, but after a few days the French consul returns secretly to the city, accompanied by the chief secretary of the governor, Courschid Pacha; at night and disguised, they glide stealthily through the streets of Cairo. They repair to the house of Mohammed Ali, and remain there in earnest and eager conversation with the sarechsme throughout the entire night. And again, as on the occasion of a former conference, the consul takes his departure before the dawn of day.
The governor's secretary remains with Mohammed. He still has a document to present to him, and Mohammed's eyes sparkle as he reads it.
"I have but one further request to make of his excellency."
"What is it, sarechsme? I am instructed to comply with your wishes in all things."
"I only wish to read the firman to Cousrouf myself."
"Let it be as you desire, sarechsme. If you ask this as a reward for
your faithful services, it is a petty one indeed; you are, however,
I believe, soon to receive a much greater one. When Courschid enters
Cairo, he will appoint you a pacha of two tails."
Mohammed hastily averted his face, and made no reply. No one should see that the intelligence made him rejoice.
The fruit is ripe and ready to fall; the time for action has come.
On the following morning, a body of soldiers marches out and surrounds the quarter of the city in which the Mameluke beys reside.
Bardissi and Ismail have both left the citadel, and now dwell in the city. There they can live more comfortably and conveniently than up in the citadel; and the Mameluke beys are in the habit of attaching more importance to their comfort than the rest of the world. The quarter in which they reside is completely surrounded by soldiers. They do not notice it, however; these grand gentlemen are taking their ease in their palaces.
Bardissi is in his harem. He has consoled himself for Sitta Nefysseh's cruelty and coldness; the beautiful Georgian and Circassian slaves that throng his harem well know how to make him forget the past with their songs and dances, their sweet words and soft looks.
There he lies on his cushions, gazing dreamily at their dancing.
Suddenly a shot is heard, then a second follows, and a ball strikes the wall of his house.
Bardissi bounds from his cushions, and the dance is at an end. He rushes out into the court-yard to learn the cause of the firing. The street and square are filled with soldiers, and on the opposite side of the square, in front of the arsenal, whole batteries are in position, as though a battle were to be fought.
"What does this mean? Who has led these troops against us? Are those not Albanians and Armenians?"
A loud, a fearful cry resounds from Bardissi's lips: "Those are Mohammed Ali's troops, and it is he who is leading them against us. It is he who has planned my destruction. Then let us also prepare for battle ourselves. They shall see that Bardissi is not so easily trapped. Let us defend ourselves in this house as in a fortress. Close all the doors and gates. Quick, ye soldiers, prepare for battle ! Ye cannoneers, do your duty!"
He calls to the cannoneers who stand by the guns crowning the wall that surrounds his house. But the cannoneers refuse to obey him.
Another loud cry escapes Bardissi's lips. Now he understands Mohammed's action, and knows why the troops were relieved, others sent to his palace a few days before, and why a new body-guard had been assigned him.
These are Mohammed's men, and they now refuse obedience to Bardissi.
He now comprehends Mohammed's whole scheme, and his heart is filled with anguish and immeasurable wrath.
"Alas! Nothing is left me but to flee. Come, my Mamelukes. Load the
dromedaries with the treasure; let the women enter the carriages.
Quick, we must act with the speed of lightning. You, my faithful
Youssouf, you will stand by me as you stood by Mourad."
"I will fight beside you while life lasts."
All is now activity. The dromedaries are laden with treasure, with chests of gold and silver coins, with jewelry, Persian carpets, furs, and silken garments. The women enter the closed carriages; the eunuchs take their place beside them. Now Bardissi mounts his war- horse, beside him his best and truest friend, Youssouf, and many others of his faithful followers.
The Mamelukes now throw open the gates, and with uplifted swords, ready for the conflict, sally forth from the court-yard.
The soldiers who have surrounded the palace see with wonder the gates open, Bardissi and his followers as they rush forth, the heavily-laden dromedaries, and the carriages filled with women. The conflict begins, a fierce conflict, the musketry rattles, and carries death into the ranks of both.
Erect on his war-horse Bardissi leads the van. He fights his way through, his sword mows down the enemy like the scythe of death. Youssouf, his faithful kachef, rides beside him. Like Bardissi, he fights like a lion, and hews with his trusty sword a pathway through the enemy's ranks. But suddenly a well-aimed ball strikes him, he reels in his saddle, and falls with a low moan to the earth, while Bardissi and his men press on.
He succeeds in fighting his way out of the city. Onward the whole train flies toward Gheezeh.
Bardissi is wounded; his right hand bleeds, and blood is streaming down his cheeks. Bardissi is wounded, yet he lives, and is saved. On they press, and now they are no longer followed.
The soldiers have still much to do in Cairo. Let Bardissi flee with his richly-laden dromedaries; let him depart from Cairo with his Mamelukes; but let him return no more.
He draws rein now that the city is behind him; he looks back, and a tear trickles down his cheek and mingles with his blood.
For whom was this tear?
He looks back toward Cairo, and murmurs: "O Mohammed, that you have betrayed me; this is bitter!"
He then turns his horse and they proceed in their flight.—Yes, there is still much work to be done in Cairo. It is not only Bardissi who has to be fought and driven out; there is Ismail, the chief of all the Mamelukes, and all the other beys. All this lordly game is to be chased and driven to bay to-day, and then there are rich spoils to be gathered. Bardissi has hardly quitted his house when the soldiers rush into it, and begin to plunder and destroy after a fashion that can hardly be surpassed by the Mamelukes themselves. The soldiers intend to pay themselves for that which Bardissi owes them.
And they do pay themselves. Bardissi possesses not only this but other houses in Cairo, and the soldiers plunder them all, leaving nothing behind but the bare walls.
They then fall upon Ismail Bey; but he, too, succeeds in cutting his way through the enemy. With him escape almost all the Mameluke beys with their followers. They flee far out of Cairo, into the open country.
At Gheezeh, on the verge of the desert, the Mamelukes lay encamped on the following day, and there the beys were assembled around their hero, Bardissi, in a sad consultation.
True, they are safe, yet they feel that their rule in Cairo is at an end, to be restored no more.
"At an end is the rule of the Mamelukes!" cries the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali, triumphantly. In the night he sends out messengers requesting the cadis and sheiks to come to him, as he has important intelligence to communicate, and a firman sent to him by the grand- sultan to read to them. The cadis and sheiks hasten to obey his call.
In Mohammed's apartment they find Courschid Pacha'a chief secretary, who reads the grand-sultan's firman to them in a loud voice.
The firman appointed Courschid Pacha Viceroy of Egypt and Governor of Cairo, and commanded all the authorities to obey and serve with humility and devotion the representative of their grand master, who would arrive in Cairo on the following day, to take possession of the fortress and receive the oaths of the officials.
The cadis and sheiks express themselves ready to obey the new governor in all things, and express the hope that with his highness's entrance into Cairo a new era of peace may dawn for their bleeding land.
They then withdraw to proclaim what has taken place to the people at the mosque on the following morning, and to exhort them to be peaceful and obedient.
Mohammed, however, repaired to the citadel, accompanied by a bim bashi and two servants, who lead two asses that seemed to be equipped for a journey. On arriving at the citadel, Mohammed left the others in the court-yard, and ascended alone to the apartment where Cousrouf was confined. He was asleep when Mohammed entered. He stood still on the threshold for a moment, gazing at his prisoner.
"Wake up, Cousrouf! wake up, thou Viceroy of Egypt, wake up!"
Cousrouf starts and stares at him.
"What is it? Who calls me?"
"Your devoted servant, the sarechsme by your grace, Mohammed Ali, calls you."
"I know by your voice that you have come to kill me!" cried
Cousrouf, springing to his feet.
Mohammed slowly shook his head.
"Had I desired your death, you would long since have stood before Allah's throne, to render an account of your crimes. No, Cousrouf, I have not come to kill you, but to read to you a message from the grand-sultan at Stamboul."
Cousrouf bowed his head.
"You mean my condemnation. Were it an acknowledgment of my right and a restoration to authority, Mohammed Ali would not have come to announce it. Read!"
The sarechsme unfolded the paper, and read in a loud voice the firman which deposed Cousrouf from the office of viceroy.
"For he has performed its duties badly, and not proved worthy of our favor. He has been vanquished by rebels, and has sought safety in flight, instead of dying in the fulfilment of his duty. Humiliated and disgraced, he has been brought a prisoner to the palace in which he once ruled. Cousrouf is entirely unworthy of the honors conferred on him, and is hereby deposed from his office and dignities, and forbidden ever to present himself before the grand-sultan, or to show himself at Stamboul in the holy empire of the grand-sultan. He is banished and exiled from the empire, and his name must never be mentioned in the hearing of the grand-sultan. He is to be conveyed to the fort built on the island of Imbro, there to remain until he dies. Such are the commands of the grand-sultan, his gracious master."
When Mohammed finishes reading, profound silence ensues. Cousrouf utters no word in reply. He stands there, motionless, pale as a corpse, staring at Mohammed. He seems to be still listening to the words he has heard, to the fearful announcement of his fall and disgrace.
"To Imbro you go," said Mohammed Ali, after a pause. "Do you remember Imbro?"
No word comes from Cousrouf's pale lips; he slowly shakes his head.
"Imbro is a little island, opposite Cavalla, and for the selection of this place you are indebted to me, Cousrouf. Do you know why I selected it? From the windows of your prison you can see Cavalla, the bay, and the Ear of Bucephalus. From there you can see the sea and the coast, can see the place where on that night the poor boy lay on the shore, also the place where Masa sank beneath the waves. You shall see this place, Cousrouf. I know your gaze will often turn in that direction, and I know you will think of me when you look at the coast, Cousrouf. Your life shall be an everlasting remorse. This is my revenge, Cousrouf. Throughout the remainder of your life your recollections shall torment you, and you shall gaze upon the place where Masa died, and where you made of the innocent boy a hard- hearted man. At Imbro you shall live, Cousrouf, and I shall take care that you sometimes hear of me there, and learn what has become of the boy who lay stretched out on the shore, his heart torn with anguish, while you caused that which he held dearest on earth to be sunk in the cold grave of the waves. This is our last meeting, yet you shall often hear of me, and this I tell you in advance: Cousrouf Pacha, where you stood in your power and magnificence, there shall Mohammed Ali stand. He will, however, be more powerful than you were, and no one shall deal with him as he has dealt with you. No one shall depose him from his place, be assured of this, and remember it in your solitude at Imbro. Bear my greeting to Cavalla, to the yellow shore, and to Masa's deep, blue grave. And now I have nothing more to say to you. I shall send up the bim bashi who is to conduct you to Alexandria, and accompany you on the ship to your home at Imbro. Farewell!"
He turns and hastily leaves the room, without looking again at
Cousrouf, who stands there motionless and deathly pale.
On ascending and unlocking the door of Cousrouf's prison, the bim bashi sees him stretched out on the floor, pale and motionless. Is he dead? Has the terrible blow destroyed him?
It were well for Cousrouf if he were dead! But no; he lives! He had only for the moment found relief in insensibility from the consciousness of humiliation and disgrace.
He returns to consciousness, is led down to the court-yard, mounted on his ass, and conducted by the bim bashi and the slaves to Alexandria. From there he is transported in the vessel, that lies in readiness, across the sea to Imbro, to the citadel, from whose windows he can see Cavalla, the water, and the place where he buried Masa beneath the cold, blue waves.
CHAPTER XIII
LOVE UNTO DEATH.
ON the afternoon of this fearful day, all was again restored to quiet in the streets of Cairo. The terror-stricken inhabitants had again ventured forth from their houses, and were standing in groups, discussing in subdued voices the events of the day. But they ceased conversing when they now saw the cadi approaching on horseback, and in advance of him the public crier. In the cadi's name he proclaimed to the people a general amnesty for all past offences: "The new viceroy is to enter the city on the morrow. Let the city put on festive attire, and let a hearty welcome be extended him. Remove from the streets and houses all traces of conflict and bloodshed. Bury your dead, and care for your wounded, ye wives of the Mameluke beys and the kachefs. Do your duty, ye women and ye servants."
These orders of the cadi were proclaimed throughout the entire city by the crier.
But now the veiled women come out into the streets with their servants, and, in obedience to the prophet's injunctions, seek the wounded and suffering, take them to their houses, and care for them tenderly.
Many of the dead and wounded lie in front of Bardissi's palace—men who had stood faithfully by their master, and fallen bravely in the discharge of duty.
A number of women approach this place. Veiled like the rest is she who precedes the others; yet her royal bearing, and the deference shown her by the servants and Mamelukes who accompany her, proclaim her to be Sitta Nefysseh. She is performing her woman's duty of seeking out and caring for the wounded. She stoops down over the bodies that lie stretched out on the earth, and suddenly a cry escapes her lips—a single cry; she then beckons to the servants, who have followed them with stretchers, for the transport of the unfortunate. She gazes in mute horror at the Mameluke bey who lies there, weltering in his blood, a fearful wound on his forehead, that almost renders his features irrecognizable. She, however, distinguishes her lover, and commands her servants to place him on the stretcher. With her own hands she binds up his wound, and covers his countenance with the white cloths handed her by her women. She then orders her servants to carry the Mameluke bey to her house, and directs her women to continue their search for the wounded.
She walks beside the stretcher on which the wounded man lies. He does not move; he lies there insensible, unconscious of what is taking place.
Perhaps Sitta Nefysseh is only conveying a corpse to her house!
She has him carried up into the second story of her house. There he is laid on a mat, and with tender hands Sitta Nefysseh herself adjusts the cushions and pillows. The servants bring to his couch, in silver bowls, water and the healing ointment which Sitta Nefysseh had prepared with her own hands. With gentle touch she wipes the blood from his countenance, washes out the wound, and applies to it the ointment.
She neither weeps nor laments. Her lips are mute, and her eyes shed nq tsars. Is this a time to weep, when Youssouf Bey is suffering and needs her care and attention? No, at such a time a woman must be strong. She will have time enough for tears and lamentation in her after-life.
The fearful gash on his forehead bears silent evidence of this. She has often seen similar wounds, and bound them up herself.
She well knows that Youssouf Bey is wounded unto death—that there is no hope of recovery: Yet she does not weep. With Allah all is possible, and he may be gracious. A miracle may occur; Youssouf's youthful vigor and his heroic nature may yet vanquish Death. Perhaps her love may preserve him. Grant, merciful Allah, that it be so!
Her women now come with other injured Mamelukes, who are placed on the mats Sitta Nefysseh had caused to be spread out for them in the adjoining room.
Sitta Nefysseh forbids any one to enter the room where Youssouf lies.
"He needs repose," said she, stepping into the adjoining room to see that the other wounded were being well cared for. "Youssouf Bey needs repose. Be still, move noiselessly, and do not disturb his sleep! It may be the sleep of death. Be still, close the doors and draw the curtains, that no noise may reach him!"
It is perfectly quiet in the room where Youssouf Bey lies. Sitta Nefysseh kneels beside him. Her hands folded in silent prayer, her eyes fastened on his countenance, she bends over him and breathes her warm, glowing breath through his cold lips, to give him of her life, and bathes his cold brow with her warm tears.
Sitta Nefysseh's prayerful, tearful entreaties are heard. Youssouf Bey awakens from his death-like slumber. Love has recalled the spirit to the body. Love opens his eyes and permits him to see and recognize her who is bowed over him, regarding him with loving tenderness.
"Is it you, Sitta Nefysseh? Am I already dead, and is it a divine being that looks at me with your eyes?"
"No, my Youssouf, you live and are with me on earth!"
"Oh, it is impossible—impossible! Only a sweet illusion," whispers he, with quivering lips; his eyes close, and he falls back heavily.
But she bends over him, strokes his brow and cheek with gentle touch, and calls him loving names.
"You live," murmurs she, "oh, feel that you live, dear Youssouf,
Feel it in this kiss!"
A soft tremor courses through his entire being, and his eyes open.
Yes, he lives! He is not dead! This is Nefysseh's victory over death, this is the result of the impassioned kiss impressed on the lips of her beloved.
"And is it possible, Nefysseh, you are indeed with me, and my dreams of love and bliss are realized? You with me! What can have happened? Why this wondrous change?"
He raises his hand to his forehead and touches the wound, and then he knows what has taken place; he feels it in the burning pain of his wound.
"Oh, we are lost—all lost! Tell me, Nefysseh, must I die?"
"No, you shall not die; you shall live, Youssouf, live for me."
"For thee? Oh, tell me, Nefysseh, do you, then, love me?"
She bends over him, clasps him in her arms, and lays her cheek against his.
"You ask, Youssouf? Do you not know? I have long loved, perhaps I loved you even while Mourad still lived! But I wished to know nothing of it, and I knew nothing of it. I refused to listen to the voices that whispered in my heart. And yet so blissful, so heavenly, to look at you, Youssouf, and read in your eyes the secret of your love. Yet my lips were silent, for, as Mourad's wife, I wished to remain unblamable. You loved me, and I wished to remain free from blame for your sake, too."
The tears that pour from her eyes fall upon his face—a heavenly dew that gives him new strength, new happiness.
"Speak on, Sitta Nefysseh, oh, speak on! What I hear is music! Let me hear this music and be happy! Oh, speak on, Nefysseh!"
"What shall I say, Youssouf? The whole meaning of my words is still, I love you, and have long loved you! When Mourad, my husband, died, I vowed over his dead body that I would remain true to him beyond the grave. Do you know why I wished to raise this barrier between us? I could not allow the youth to sacrifice his life for me in the blossom of his age. And, moreover, oh, fool that I was, I fancied the wide abyss that separated Mourad Bey's widow from his kachef Youssouf could never be crossed! I was proud, Youssouf, and proud for you, also! I did not wish to give any one occasion to say: 'Kachef Youssouf marries Mourad's widow for her possessions—for her wealth. She is too old for him to love her. He can only have married her for her wealth and her name.' Thus they might have spoken of the youth, of the hero I loved and adored, and for whom I would gladly have sacrificed my life."
"And to whom you were yet so cruel, Sitta Nefysseh; to whom you caused so much suffering! For I have suffered, Sitta Nefysseh. It was my heaven to be in your presence, to see you. I adored you, and yet you refused to listen to me. But let me be silent. Speak on, oh, speak on of my happiness! Tell me again that you love me, Nefysseh; I cannot believe it—it cannot be!"
"And yet it is so, Youssouf, and long have I loved you. You know not of the long, sleepless nights I have passed in my solitary chamber, my hands folded in prayer to Allah for strength and firmness. You know not how often, in the still night, I have stretched out my arms toward you, and pronounced your name with passionate longing, entreating the welis to bear you to me in their gentle arms. Yet, with the day came cold, calm reason, exhorting Mourad's widow to be firm and proud. And, alas! I was firm. You knew not what it cost me. Then, Youssouf, a new period came. The beys Bardissi and L'Elfi addressed me, covetous not only of the possession of the woman, but also of her wealth. From that hour I knew that danger threatened you, for the Mameluke beys are fierce and cruel; and, if they had known of my affection for you, my beloved, you would have been lost. This I knew, and therefore was I cold and indifferent in my manner to you. You called me unfeeling and cruel when I sent you away to battle. I was afraid it might excite suspicion if I kept you back at such a time; and then, too, I was satisfied you would make for yourself a name, which you have done, my beloved. You returned. You came with a new declaration of love, which Nefysseh rejected, because Bardissi had been with her in the self-same hour, and had renewed his addresses, and because he would never forgive you if I chose you instead of himself. And now this fearful disaster has overtaken us all! Treachery has stained our streets with blood! The Mameluke beys have left the city in wild flight! You, Youssouf Bey, have, however, remained here, and now I may tell you all, avow all that I feel and have endured and suffered in secret. I may tell you that I love you, and Allah will be merciful and gracious, Youssouf. We are united in love. The seal has fallen from my lips, and they dare proclaim what I feel. Oh, my Youssouf, there is a bright future in store for us; you will recover, and be strong and happy!"
"I am already well," murmured he. "All is well with me, Sitta Nefysseh, for you love me, and in your love I shall regain health and strength."
His lips cease to speak, and a tremor courses through his whole being.
"Youssouf!" cries she, in tones of anguish—"Youssouf! Oh, stay with me, do not leave me!"
In response to her call, he opens his eyes and gives her a tender look.
"Yes, Sitta Nefysseh, I shall remain with you throughout all time, throughout eternity, for love is eternal."
His lips are hushed, but his eyes still gaze up at her, for a moment, with the lustre of life; then they grow dim and cold, and slowly the veil of death sinks down over his countenance. The lips that but now spoke the words, "I love you," are hushed forever!
Bowed down over him, her eyes axed intently on the features from which the last traces of life are vanishing, she sees the kiss that Death has imprinted on his lips; and the last smile slowly fade from his countenance.
And again she neither weeps nor laments; she only tears the veil from her head with a wild, despairing movement, and lays it over the countenance of her beloved dead.
"Sleep, Youssouf, sleep beneath my veil! You are dead, and my happiness dies with you—I shall be a living monument to your memory! I shall live in poverty and solitude, Youssouf, and the treasures which you buried for me beneath the earth shall remain there, a subterranean monument to my love. They shall never see the light of day! You have buried my treasures, and I will bury my greatest, holiest treasure—you, Youssouf Bey; and with you Sitta Nefysseh buries her youth, her love, and her grandeur, to be henceforth only a poor widow, who lives in solitary retirement, a prey to sorrow. Sleep, Youssouf Bey! You will awake with me above, to an eternal life—sleep, Youssouf!"
She lifts the veil once more, and kisses the forehead, now cold as marble; she then replaces it softly, and leaves the room.
CHAPTER XIV
COURSCHID PACHA.
A new viceroy is enthroned in Cairo, the viceroy Courschid Pacha, and it is again the old story of wars, want of money, and oppression of the people.
Courschid Pacha! What is he but a continuation of all the other viceroys, governors, and caimacans who have ruled in Cairo since Egypt has belonged to the Turkish empire? New taxes, new extortion, and new wars. For the Mameluke beys have assembled on the plain of Gheezeh and formed new plans, recruited their ranks with Arabians and Nubians, and prepared to take the field against the rulers in Cairo, and above all against their most hated enemy, the pacha Mohammed Ali.
Such was the dignity conferred upon Mohammed by Courschid Pacha, upon his entrance into Cairo, in the name of the grand sultan.
It is not to war against Courschid Pacha that the Mamelukes are assembling their forces. To destroy Mohammed Ali, the soldier-king, the real ruler in Cairo, is their aim; and, in order to accomplish this, they even humble themselves before the viceroy, who is already involved in a conflict with Mohammed. They seek to treat with him, and with the grand-admiral of the Turkish fleet, sent by the Sublime Porte to Alexandria to restore peace to the distracted country. To him, the grand-admiral, the Mameluke beys address a letter offering their services:
"The undersigned, knowing that your highness has come to Egypt to put an end to the anarchy that prevails, offer, in the name of all the beys, to unite their forces with those of Courschid Pacha, and to assist him and your highness in all you may do and undertake, provided Mohammed Ali and the Albanians be driven from the country."
This proposition receives the approval of Courschid Pacha, who hates Mohammed as heartily as the Mamelukes do! Mohammed is the people's idol. To him they apply for relief from oppression, and, whenever there is any thing to be demanded of the viceroy, it is Mohammed, supported by the cadis and sheiks, who loudly demands that right and justice be done. Merely this: "Right and justice!" But this it is that Courschid cannot accord them. He cannot accord right and justice, he who is always in want and danger, he who is suffering with the disease that has so long cursed the viceroys of Egypt—want of money. When money is needed, it must be had, even if extorted from the inhabitants of Cairo and its vicinity. And Mohammed often interposes and prevents Courschid from executing his money-raising schemes.
Courschid Pacha, incensed by this interference, complains to the sultan at Stamboul, and requests that the sarecbsme, Mohammed Ali, be relieved from duty at Cairo, and assigned to duty elsewhere. At the same time, in order to make himself independent of the Albanians, who are wholly under the influence of Mohammed Ali, he causes a body of troops to be brought to Cairo for himself, a body of Delis, wild, lawless troops, who carry terror and dismay wherever they go. These Delis are now seen in Egypt for the first time; the viceroy treats them tenderly, and Courschid, who has money for no one else, has money for his Delis; and when he has none, he delivers over to their mercy some village in the vicinity of Cairo, out of which they pay themselves by pillage.
At last a day came when the people, so long bowed down in the dust, arose like a lion, and refused to yield longer to such oppression.
"We will endure this no more; we will submit to this injustice and oppression no longer!"
The cadis and sheiks repair to the citadel to announce the determination of the people to the viceroy.
"The people refuse to submit further to this oppression. Neither they nor we will endure it."
They say this to his face, proudly, fearlessly. He replies fiercely: "I will hurl death into your midst if the people are not brought back to humility and obedience, for I am your master—I alone!"
"You are our master while we recognize you as such, and no longer," replied the cadi, turning and leaving the room, followed by the sheiks.
In the streets below he announces to the people: "Justice is not to be obtained of Courschid Pacha, and we will submit to him no more!"
"No, we can and will not submit," say the cadi and sheiks, who, accompanied by thousands of the people, have repaired to the palace of the sarechsme.
"We announce to you, Mohammed Ali, in the name of the whole people, we will recognize and obey Courschid Pacha no longer. This man's cruelty and injustice are no longer to be endured."
"We declare him removed from his office; we declare him deposed from the throne," cried the cadi, solemnly; and the sheiks repeat the cry: "We declare him removed from his office; we declare him deposed from the throne!"
And in the streets without, the people shout exultingly: "We declare him deposed from the throne!"
Mohammed listens to these unusual outcries, and his countenance is grave and solemn.
"You depose him from the throne, O cadi! But whom will you put in his place?"
He asks the question slowly and quietly, and no one knows how wildly his heart throbs within him. He is aware that the crisis is at hand, and that what he has dreamed of since his boyhood, and worked and toiled for during four long years, is now about to be decided. "Whom will you put in his place?"
"Yourself, Mohammed Ali!" cried the cadi, solemnly. "Yes; you must rule in Courschid Pauha's stead, for we are convinced that your aim will be the welfare of the people."
"Me!" said Mohammed Ali, recoiling a step as if startled, and the pallor which overspread his face could have been caused by alarm as well as by joy.
"No, it is impossible, you cannot select me; I am not worthy of so great an honor."
"You are worthy of this honor, and the people invest you with it through me," cried the cadi. "Come, Mohammed Ali, Caimacan of Cairo, our governor and master! I proclaim you to be such, in the name of the people."
While Mohammed silently shakes his head, the cadi hastily throws open the wide doors that lead out upon the balcony of the house, steps out and proclaims, in such loud tones that the assembled thousands who fill the spacious square can hear him:
"Coursechid Pacha is deposed, and we elect Mohammed Ali Pacha to be our governor! Is this your will?"
"It is our will!" shout the populace, exultingly. "Courschid is deposed, and Mohammed Ali is our governor! Long live Mohammed Ali!"
His head bowed down on his breast, Mohammed stands listening to the grateful words: "Long live Mohammed Ali!"
The cadi re-enters the apartment. "You have heard their voice! Now show yourself to the people. They have chosen you. Step out upon the balcony with us, that they may salute you."
"It shall be as you say," said he, after a pause. "The people call me, and I will greet them. May Allah assist me in advancing their welfare!"
The cadi takes his hand and leads him out. Without, the assembled thousands shout exultingly: "Long live our new governor! Our caimacan! Our viceroy! Long live Mohammed Ali Pacha!"
These strains resound so loudly through the city, that they reach the citadel. Everywhere in the streets exulting voices cry: "Courschid Pacba is deposed, and Mohammed Ali is our governor!"
"I am alone viceroy here in Cairo," is the burden of a missive penned by Courschid in the citadel, and, sent down by him to the cadi and sheiks. "I alone am viceroy. Upon me the grand-sultan at Stamboul has conferred this dignity, and a message will soon come from our master announcing to you his decision with regard to the rebel, Mohammed Ali. Until then I will assert my authority, and I appeal to all faithful subjects, and to all who do not wish to hazard their future with the rebels, and to perish with them, to rally to the support of their lawful ruler."
And large numbers did so, many fearing, no doubt, the decision expected from Stamboul.
But Mohammed was undaunted, and besieged the citadel of Cairo with his faithful Albanians.
The bloody struggle arose between the besiegers and the besieged. The cannon thundered death and destruction into the city, and, when vigorous sorties occurred, the conflict sometimes surged far down into the streets. But finally, after four days of fierce fighting, the expected message arrived from Stamboul, and an unexpected one it proved to be, to the viceroy, Courschid Pacha.
The grand-vizier had sent one of his confidants with the capidgi bashi, with instructions to investigate, and make himself thoroughly acquainted with the state of things, and learn who was right, and who wrong; and the capidgi, and his associate, had done so; and now, upon their arrival in Cairo, they summoned the cadi and sheiks, and announced to them, and to Mohammed Ali, the firman of the grand- sultan: "Mohammed Ali is confirmed in his office of Governor of Cairo and Viceroy of Egypt; and the deposed viceroy, Courschid Pacha, is ordered to repair to Alexandria, there to await the further orders of his master."
A copy of this firman is sent up to the citadel, and Courschid commanded to surrender the fortress, and leave the city immediately. He at first declined to surrender, and demanded an interview with the capidgi bashi and his associate. This was, however, refused him, and he was at last compelled to yield, and give up the citadel. Through the little side-gate that leads down to the Nile, Courschid, accompanied by a few faithful followers, left the citadel, and was conveyed in boats, that lay in readiness, down the river to Boulak. From there, after a brief sojourn, he continued his journey to Alexandria, and then on to Stamboul.
While Courschid is descending the secret stairway to leave the citadel, Mohammed All and his warriors are ascending the hill in triumph, marching to the strains of stirring military music. The garrison of the fortress lay down their arms, and all cry, exultingly: "Long live Mohammed Ali, our new viceroy!" He still hears it as he enters the grand apartment where Courschid has been in the habit of receiving him. He still hears it as he steps out upon the wall of the fortress, and looks down upon the wondrous city, at the Nile, at the palm-trees on the green shore beyond, and at the yellow desert, on whose verge the pyramids tower aloft.
"Long live our new viceroy, Mohammed Ali!"
This cry resounds from a thousand voices, and Mohammed gazes out upon the beautiful, heavenly world that is now his own, and an ecstasy that almost makes his heart stand still, possesses his soul.
"Long live the Viceroy of Egypt!"
"I have reached my goal. I am the viceroy. They greet me with shouts of joy, and wish me a long life. I will endeavor to reward them. Poor, bleeding Egypt, shall progress under my rule. I will endeavor to bring prosperity and happiness to those who have suffered so much. This I swear, by Allah! I will raise this poor land up out of the dust. Yes, I swear it, by Allah!"
CHAPTER XV
THE TENT.
PEACE and tranquillity prevail at last.—For the present, at least, the people enjoy blessings to which they have long been. strangers, and it is to the new viceroy and his beneficent rule that they owe these blessings. He has signalized the beginning of his rule by compelling the lawless horde of Delis, called by Courschid his body- guard, to return to the interior of Africa. He has also brought back into subjection the Armenians and Albanians, who, carried away by the war-fury, had, for a period, laughed at all order and discipline. Though mild and gentle toward the devoted and obedient, Mohammed is severe and cruel to the disobedient and defiant.
Many heads have fallen in these first days of his rule. The head of many a wild soldier, who paid for his mutinous or riotous behavior with his life, adorns the wall of the citadel, a warning to the enemies of law and order.
This warning is not lost on the other soldiers, and on the secret adherents of the Mamelukes; it teaches them to conform to circumstances and bow their heads in submission. The Mamelukes themselves are far distant from Cairo, and lie encamped near Minieh, equipping and disciplining their forces, and preparing to renew the struggle.
The viceroy, however, has a strong arm, and his power increases daily. He will bring them also into submission.
The people who pass the palace occupied by Mohammed as sarechsme, stand still, and gaze with curiosity at the changes and alterations being made there. Large numbers of laborers are engaged in repairing the injuries sustained by the building in the recent conflicts; in setting out trees and shrubbery in the garden, and in adorning it with rare flowers. Great improvements are progressing in the wing of the building whose windows open on the garden.
Artistically carved lattice-work and shutters are being affixed to the lofty windows of the second story. And the curious, who observe this, give each other a sly look, and smile. They understand the significance of these shutters. These are the shutters of the windows of a harem, and they proclaim that Mohammed is now also occupied with, other than affairs of state. The people rejoice in these harem windows, for they are a guarantee of peace. When the warrior builds a harem, it proves that he himself believes in the stability of peace, and the new order of things. And the new viceroy does.
In discussing these matters, the people who stand in front of the palace of the Esbekieh tell each other that the viceroy has sent a messenger to his distant home beyond the sea, where his first wife and children live, and has sent them word to come to him. "They will come by water!" relates one of them, "and that is why the dehabieh is being built at Boulak. It is like a magnificent saloon, and is to be beautifully adorned—the walls hung with velvet, and the floor covered with costly Persian carpets. The viceroy's first wife and his children will come up from Alexandria in this dehabieh."
"His first wife?" exclaims another. "You speak of his first. Has he then other wives?"
The person addressed then assumes a mysterious air, as if to intimate that he is in the viceroy's confidence, and quite accurately informed as to the number of his wives. "It is not known," says he, hesitatingly; "it is, however, well known that a harem has been constructed at the citadel, and that here also the apartments in the wing of the palace are to be arranged as a harem."
"One wife hardly requires two harems, I should fancy?" they all laughingly repeat; "by Allah, one wife has no need of two harems, and the viceroy must therefore have as the prophet allows, more than one wife."
But no one knows it; and Mohammed takes care to be silent concerning his private life. He is reticent in such matters, and only talkative when in conference with his ministers and government officials, and most so when conversing with Hassan, his minister of finance, on which occasions he is often compelled to hear that the treasury is unfortunately almost empty, and that new means of replenishing it must be devised.
Money is scarce, but none is spared in decorating the apartments at the citadel, and below in the palace of the Esbekieh.
The apartments in the citadel destined to be the harem of the viceroy's wife, as well as the other apartments of the palace, are being splendidly furnished.
The upper apartments, now that they are completed, the viceroy inspects alone; through the others he walks beside his faithful friend Hassan, pointing out with complacency the beauties of the long suite of elegantly-furnished apartments.
"And do you know who is to occupy these rooms, Hassan?" asked Mohammed, his countenance assuming a more mild and kindly expression than Hassan had ever before observed in the usually stern and severe features of his master.
"It is said the viceroy has sent for his sons," replied Hassan, "and
I therefore suppose that they are to live here."
"And your supposition is right, my friend," replied the viceroy, smiling. "Yes, here my dear sons will live, my three boys. Yet they must be almost young men by this time. Let me see, five years have passed since I saw them. They must have changed very much in this time, Hassan, and I confess my heart yearns for them. Do you think they will know me?"
"You are not changed, master," replied Hassan. "Just as you look now, you looked on that day, you know, the day at Aboukir, when I saw you for the first time."
"I know, we met there for the first time, and you are the only friend that has stood beside me faithfully since that day. The only one, too, Hassan, in whom I confide, and may Allah grant that you stand beside me through life!"
"Yes, may Allah grant that my enemies may never succeed in making you distrust me. For this I know, I shall remain faithful to you until death; and malice and calumny alone can succeed in alienating from me my master's confidence."
"Hassan," said the viceroy, looking at him earnestly, "I do not listen to calumny, and, whatever I hear, I do not believe it unless I recognize it as truth. You will be often calumniated, my friend; that I well know. But this I promise you: whatever evil is said of you I will repeat to you, to enable you to justify yourself, and then woe to those who have the temerity to calumniate you!"
The viceroy has shown the beautiful apartments of the citadel to his friend Hassan, but the apartments in the palace of the Esbekieh he shows to no one; through them he wanders alone. The saloons and chambers are not yet finished; he carefully observes them as he walks along, noting whether his instructions are being complied with. Now he has entered the immense saloon, situated at the end of the apartments of the harem. He locks the door behind him; here no one must see him; to this sanctuary no human eye must follow him.
At the entrance he stands still and looks around. A wondrous change has come over him. He smiles, and his countenance is still more radiant than when he spoke with Hassan of his sons. His eyes sparkle like those of a youth who beholds again the countenance of his beloved.
The saloon is curiously furnished. Nothing splendid, nothing beautiful is to be seen. Simple mats cover the floor, such mats, woven of long straw by the fellahs, as adorn the harems of the poorer class of people in Cairo. There are no divans, but only low cushions covered with plain woolen cloth, no costly hangings, no mirrors on the walls; they are hung with gray linen, as though they were the sides of a gigantic tent, and in the middle of this immense space there really stands a tent—a large one made of white cloth, patched with colored rags of every description, such a tent as the Bedouin chiefs of the desert dwell in.
Any one entering this immense space, after passing through the glittering apartments of the harem, would have been strangely and mysteriously affected by its appearance.
But Mohammed is not so affected. He steps in noiselessly, as if fearing to disturb the repose of some one.
Is any one reposing there?
Not yet; but the time, it is to be hoped, will soon come when this tent shall no longer be unoccupied as now.
Mohammed steps forward, draws back the curtain, and enters the first apartment of the tent.
How plain it is, how desolate and bare! On the mat in the corner, however, lie cushions, and spread over them a shawl adorned with tassels, the cover for the person who is to sleep there; there stands also a stool, and on it lies a tray, which contains various articles of table-ware, such as dishes, plates, and pitchers. `
It all looks extremely plain, but, when viewed more closely, it is observed that, beneath this simplicity, splendor is concealed. When the shawl is raised, it is discovered that the other side is of heavy crimson velvet, inworked with gold, and bordered with pearls. When the tray that lies on the stool is examined, it is found to be of solid silver, and of great value, though unpolished and rough; and the cups, dishes, and other articles, prove to be of richly- worked gold, set with precious stones, and placed as if in jest in plain, wooden forms. Mohammed examines all these things with a smile of satisfaction, and murmurs to himself: "Yes, yes, it was just so. The first apartment presented just this appearance."
He now draws back the curtain that opens into the second apartment, and it seems to him he hears now as then a sweet voice say: "The second apartment is for the women, and no man is ever allowed to enter it. I will conduct you into that apartment, and there I beg you to remain."
The second apartment, where Butheita lived, was just like this. There lay the cushions on which her lovely form reposed at night. Just so was the woollen cover with its white and brown stripes, and like these were the little red shoes that stood beside her couch there. Only those were of leather and these were of red velvet, and sparkled with precious stones. When raised, it was found that the other side of this woollen cover, like that in the other apartment, was also of splendid material, richly worked and adorned with gems. There was nothing else here but a small chest that stood in a remote corner, as in Butheita's tent. In that she kept the little ornaments, purchased for her in Tantah by her father, articles of jewelry found in the sand of the desert, and which had perhaps been worn by a daughter of the Pharaohs, and gems that had been taken from the grave of some mummy, where they had lain for thousands of years. Outwardly the chest that stood in the corner looked like the other, but it contained treasures of a different nature; a costly necklace of pearls, buckles of enormous value, and a diadem, so lustrous that it seemed as though Mohammed had stolen stars from heaven with which to adorn his love.
As he stands there absorbed in the contemplation of these articles, a feeling of unutterable bliss comes over him, of happiness unknown to him for many long years.
Yes, unknown to him for long years, for very many have elapsed since Masa died. Since the time when he prepared the subterranean grotto for Masa, he has never until now experienced such ecstasy. He steps out, closes the curtains, and surveys every thing once more, and smiles his approval.
"Now I go for your mistress," murmured he, as he turns and walks toward the door. But at the door he suddenly stands still. He feels that this is not the countenance of the viceroy, of a ruler, but that of a happy man. Such a countenance he must, however, not exhibit to the world; no one must see that the ruler, perplexed and weighed down with the cares of state, can sometimes forget that he is a ruler, and become for a moment a happy man. When he steps out his countenance wears its usual grave and severe expression.
On the evening of this day, the viceroy leaves the citadel for a short time. He wishes to repose for a few days in his house on the shore of the Nile, opposite Boulak, in the house he had caused to be built when he was sarechsme, and to which he had given the name Salam-lyk.
A single servant, Achmed, accompanies the viceroy to Salam-lyk, where he proposes to enjoy a little rest from the cares of state, as he is in the habit of doing from time to time.
Upon his arrival at Salam-lyk, he calls Achmed to his apartment, confers with him for a long time, and gives him instructions with regard to something he wishes him to do. Achmed leaves him, mounts a swift dromedary, and rides out into the night, and Mohammed retires to rest. But he rises again with the earliest dawn, and gazes impatiently out of the window, as if expecting some one; he smiles at himself; he is as impatient as a young girl, or as a lover awaiting the coming of his love.
But hour after hour passes, and still he sees no one coming up the path that leads through the garden to the house. But finally, at noon, Achmed is seen approaching
Mohammed hastens out into the garden to meet him.
"Well, did you find the tent?"
"Yes, master, the dromedary ran to it of its own accord."
"And whom did you meet at the tent?"
"The father, master—the chief Arnhyn."
Mohammed quickly averts his face—the servant must not see that his lips quiver, that he grows pale.
"You met the chief, and he was alone?"
"Yes, master, alone in his tent, and I conversed with him."
"What was said? Did he speak of his daughter? Has she followed another man to his tent?" asked Mohammed, in such quick, passionate tones, that Achmed started and failed to understand his meaning.
"No, master, he spoke to me of his daughter, because I, as you instructed me, asked about, her, yet so casually, that he could not suspect that I particularly desired to speak of her. He told me his daughter was much changed; she had become sad and delicate, and he had therefore sent her to visit some friends at Petresin, in order that she might be thrown together with other young girls for a time, and learn to laugh and jest again. She had, however, sent her father word yesterday that she could endure it no longer, and would return home to-day. He stood at the door awaiting her, unwilling to leave his tent to go out to meet her, for fear of the thieving Bedouins that roam the desert, and who knew that his tent contained costly treasures."
"Then you suppose Butheita will return to her father's to-day?"
"I remained there until I saw her coming in the distance. The sheik's eagle-eyes recognized her in the dim distance. 'There comes my daughter, Butheita, with her friends!' he cried, joyously; 'in an hour she will be here.' I remained some time longer, the sheik gradually becoming more and more delighted as he recognized his daughter more distinctly. 'Yes, it is Butheita!' he cried; 'she is returning home.' Then I took my departure, master, to bring you the intelligence."
"And how long," asked Mohammed, hastily, his countenance averted— "how long do you suppose it will take to reach the sheik's tent?"
"I took, as you instructed me, master, the dromedary you recently purchased from Sheik Arnhyn. It knew the road, and flew on its way like the wind, without any guidance. I think it call be reached in two hours."