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

CHAPTER X

COUSROUF PACHA.

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

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

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

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

In vain had Osman continually renewed his entreaties: "Come to me.

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

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

"I cannot and dare not accept, Osman. It would make me unhappy; I should feel myself under too much restraint; I must, above all, preserve the consciousness of being perfectly free and independent.

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

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

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

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

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

"Those are sweet words, Osman," said Mohammed, bestowing an affectionate look on his friend. "You are so noble and generous, that you wish to make it appear that all the benefits I have received from you were bestowed by me. But Allah knows that I am profoundly grateful, and I am aware, too, that I have cause to be.

Only consider, that to you and your father I owe all that I know.

Have I not been allowed to share the instruction given you? Has not the scha-er, whom your father, as his narratives pleased us so much, kept here at a heavy expense, instructed me, too, and taught us both the history of our own and of all other countries? Have I not had the same opportunities as yourself of learning of all that is going on out in the world? Did I not share your instruction in all other branches? Have not the poems of our land been read to us, and have we not learned to understand the Koran, and receive into our souls the wise teachings of the prophet Mahommed? Have we not also learned the difficult science of algebra, and are we not familiar with the laws of justice? Do I not owe it entirely to the instruction which I have shared with you that I can also read the Koran and the books of the prophets and poets? Ah, Osman, I still remember with shame how I was sorrowfully compelled to confess to our teacher in our first lessons, that I knew and understood nothing; that I could not read, and did not even know the letters and figures."

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

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

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

"I cannot", cried Mohammed, impatiently; "my hands are too rough.

The oar and the gun have made my fingers so stiff that I cannot use the pen."

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

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

"As you are," responded Osman, smiling.

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

"Who knows?" replied Osman, laughing. "Those who assure us they will never love, says the poet, are the one's that fall in love soonest.

One is easily surprised by the enemy who is not feared, and against whose snares the heart is not on its guard . . . This will be your fate, Mohammed. Your heart is not on its guard, and does not fear the enemy, love . . . But my poor heart has no cause to fear and be on its guard; let me repeat it, Mohammed; look at me. Can the poor, pale youth, with his wan countenance, his sunken breast, and his weak breath can he think of marrying? Or do you suppose I would care to become a subject of jest in the harem to the female slaves and servants, who would have to wait on the sick man? True, the tschorbadji, my father, has sometimes spoken of giving me an establishment of my own with my eighteenth year. I remained silent, for fortunately it is at present impossible. My establishment was to have been above in the upper saloons, and fortunately Cousrouf Pacha with his harem is still in possession of that part of our house. May he long remain there! I do not wish it on his account, or because I love him, but solely because my father must now delay the execution of this plan. May Cousrouf Pacha, therefore, long remain!"

"I do not wish it," said Mohammed, gloomily; "he is a hard, proud man, better in his own estimation than anybody here in Cavalla, better even than the tschorbadji. I never saw a prouder man. And what right has he to be so? Has he not fallen into disgrace with the sultan? Did he not come here because he was banished from Stamboul?

And do you know why he was banished? I will tell you: because--so have strangers who have come here reported, because he sought the death of his benefactor and master, the grand admiral, Hussein Pacha, in order that he might put himself in his place. Isn't this horrible, Osman? The grand-admiral had bought him as a slave, and then, because he loved him; made him free, and a wealthy man; he had him instructed, and persuaded the sultan to appoint him bey and pasha; and in return for all this, Cousrouf Pacha attempted to poison his faithful master and benefactor, and calumniated him to the grand sultan. Isn't this horrible?"

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

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

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

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

Let me go now, Osman, it is unpleasant to be in the vicinity of this haughty man; my heart always fiercely resents his insolence. Let me go!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was not ashamed of him, although the lad called Cousrouf was, after all, only a slave."

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

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

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

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

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

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