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

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

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

"I am not mocking you, Sitta Khadra," said the merchant, gravely. "

I esteem you, for you are a good woman, and therefore I addressed you as I did. I know you well, and I know what you have there hidden under your veil."

"What have I there, sir?"

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

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

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

She shook her head gently.

"You are very kind, sir, and I thank you. Yet, I cannot accept them.

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

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

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

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

She slowly raised her arm, and pointed upward.

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

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

She slowly shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII

THE FRIENDS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Osman shook his head gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will he remain long, Osman?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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