"You ask me? Then I will tell you: You must bow your heads beneath the yoke. You must obey the commands of the tschorbadji."

"Never! never!" cried the men. "Has not the sheik himself forbidden us to do so? Did not the ulemas, as late as yesterday evening at sunset, command us in Allah's name to be firm?"

"They did command it," cried the girl, passionately, "and they did so because they wished to do their duty and obey the law. But it devolves upon you, ye men, to obey the higher law that dwells in us.

Will you, ye men of Praousta, allow your best and noblest men to be murdered for the sake of a paltry sum of money. Do you wish that your children and grandchildren should one day point at you and say: --Look at them, they are murderers! They slaughtered them that they might keep their money, that they might keep that which they held dearest!"

"No, Masa, it is not on account of the money!" cried the men. "It is a question of our honor, of law, and of justice. And therefore the sheik has commanded us not to pay. A double tax was imposed on us; that was unjust. The sheik and the ulemas say that, if we pay this double tax, they will the next time demand a treble, and the third time a quadruple tax. In this way they would consume our substance, and our fate would be poverty and the beggar's staff. Thus spoke the sheik and the ulemas as late as yesterday evening, and therefore must we remain firm, and, therefore, oh, forgive us, we should not dare to pay even if we could."

"But we cannot even do it," cried one of the men. "No, Masa, you may believe us, it is not in our power. The tobacco-crop has turned out badly, and the storms have destroyed our nets, and let the fish escape. Really, we could not pay even if we would. It was with the greatest difficulty that we got the simple tax together, and now the tschorbadji sends us word, by his collectors, that we must pay as much more. By Allah, it is impossible, we cannot do it."

"No, it is impossible; we cannot do it," cried the rest, in a chorus of lamentation.

"Then you are ready to let my father die--to become the murderers of our ulemas," cried Masa, falling on her knees, and stretching out her arms imploringly. "Oh, be merciful to yourselves, for I tell you the evil spirits will obtain power over you, if you do not abandon your cruel intention. I tell you, misery will be your portion, if you allow your noblest men to be murdered for the sake of vile money."

"And we tell you, Masa, that we cannot pay," cried the men, in defiant, despairing tones. "We repeat, and call Allah to witness, we have not the money they demand of us."

"You have not this money? But if you had it, would you then pay?

Would you bend your heads to save the heads of our noblest men?

Would you go to the tschorbadji and say--Here is the double tax. You do us injustice, yet we humble ourselves in order to save the lives of our sheik and the ulemas!' Say, would you do this?"

The people made no reply, but cast sorrowful glances at each other, and whispered among themselves

"The sheik would not forgive us; he gave strict orders that we should not pay."

"But his life, and the lives of the ulemas are at stake," murmured one of them.

"Yes, his life is at stake!" cried Masa, who had heard this. "I entreat you to grant my request. Let each of you go after the tax he has laid by, and then come with me, all of you, to the tschorbadji.

I will attend to the rest."

"Masa, what are you about to do? " asked the men, regarding her in astonishment. "It does not become a woman to meddle with such affairs."

"It becomes a daughter to save her father's life. This is my only purpose, and may Allah assist me in accomplishing it!" cried she, with enthusiasm. "I pray you, go after the money, and wait at the rocky stairway. I am only going to my house, and shall return directly."

She flew across the square to her father's house. Two female servants, who had been standing in the hall, anxiously awaiting the return of their mistress, cried out with joy, and hastened forward to kiss her bands.

She rushed past them up the stairway, and into her room, looking the door behind her, that none might follow. She then took hastily from a trunk, inherited from her mother, a casket, adorned with mother- of-pearl and precious, stones. She opened it and looked at its contents.

"Yes, there are the ear-rings; and there are the tiara and the necklace."

Her mother had given her, on her death-bed, these, the bridal ornaments she had brought with her from her father's house, and the sheik had often remarked that these jewels were worth at least a hundred sequins.

Until now, their value had been a matter of indifference to her.

What cared she how much money could be had for her pearls and necklace? She loved this jewelry because it came from her mother, but now she thinks differently.

"The jewelry is worth at least a hundred sequins, and the tax certainly does not amount to more. And, if it were more, I should entreat the governor until he accepted the jewelry as the second tax. Thus it shall be. O dear mother, look down upon your daughter, and do not be angry with her for parting with the costly souvenir given her by you on your death-bed! Do not be angry, and see in it only love for my father!"

She bowed her head, and kissed the pearls which had once adorned her mother; kissed the necklace and the tiara that had once shone on her dear head.

"O mother, I had thought, that on my wedding-day, I too should wear these costly ornaments. But I know that it will be a matter of indifference to him, the only one for whom I wish this day to come.

He would not look at the glittering jewels, but only at me. I therefore willingly part with them; I do not care, for he whom I love will not be grieved if I come to him unadorned."

A blissful smile overspread her lovely countenance.

She closed and locked the casket, and hid it under her veil. She hastily walked down the stairway, out of the house, and toward the mosque, where the men had begun to assemble, each one bringing with him his proportion of the tax.

"Tell me, ye men," asked Masa, quickly, "what is the amount of the tax you are called on to pay?"

"The simple tax, Masa, amounts to one hundred sequins. Consider how heavy a burden this alone is. There are hardly fifty men of us living here in Praousta, and really it seems to us quite sufficient that each of us has two sequins to pay at the end of each summer.

But to pay the double tax is simply impossible. Your father well knew this, Masa, and he therefore sternly commanded us not to pay, as the demand was contrary to law and justice."

"A hundred sequins," cried she, with sparkling eyes. "Then all is well. Come, ye men of Praousta let us ascend the stairway. The hour of the second prayer has not yet come, and until then, with the tschrobadji's consent, Mohammed Ali has granted us a respite. Wait on the crest of the rock above until I call you. I shall now go to the tschorbadji; pray ye, in the mean while, to Allah, that my words may prove effectual."

She ascended the stairway with flying footsteps. With dejected looks, the men slowly followed. "We are wrong in allowing her to persuade us to submit to the tschorbadji. We will, however, pay the just tax, and no more. We would not pay more, even if we could. Here let us stay and await the call of our sheik's daughter."

"And let us pray, as she requested," murmured others. On bended knees, and with solemn countenances, the men, but now so noisy and fierce, awaited Masa's return in silence.

The white dove flew up the pathway, through the courtyard, and into the palace, regardless of a number of her father's old friends who were lying on the ground before the gate. She dare not stop to speak to them, for the sheik could seek to learn on what errand his daughter goes alone to the palace. If she should tell him, he would command her to return to her father's harem, there to await in patience the fate Allah should have in store for his children. No, she cannot approach him, cannot brave his questioning; she would then be compelled to disobey him, for her father's life must and shall be preserved.

The tschorbadji stood in the lower hall. His heart was troubled, and his countenance sorrowful. He should not have permitted Mohammed Ali to go so far. How terrible it would be if this execution should really take place here in his courtyard, if the heads of the best men of Praousta should really fall to the ground! No, he should not have permitted the stern, pitiless young man to pledge his honor for the fulfullment of what he had undertaken. He had already asked his son Osman to seek his friend and entreat him to desist from his stern purpose. Osman was now pleading with his friend in soft, persuasive tones.

"Will he succeed?" This is now the question that agitates the tschorbadji. He had sworn by all that was holy that Mohammed should have his will; and a Moslem cannot break his oath; honor forbids it.

The tachorbadji knows this very well, and therefore is he sorrowful and dejected. Should the young man persist, he must therefore unwillingly allow him to carry out his purpose. He sits there on the divan, tortured with doubt and apprehension. Will Mohammed relent?

Will Osman succeed in softening his heart?

At this moment the door opens, and a veiled woman enters the room.

She advances with light and noiseless footstep, and kneels down before the tschorbadji.

"O master, be merciful to your servant! Sheik Alepp's daughter kneels before you ! Incline your heart to mercy, and give back to me my father!"

"Gladly would I do so, were it in my power," sighed he. I swear it by Allah! But I have pledged my word to the young man to whom I gave authority to act in the name of the law, that he should have unlimited power to do as he should deem proper in the matter. I can therefore do nothing, though I would gladly liberate your father and abandon the collection of the tax."

"O master, I do not ask you to give up the tax! You shall have all you have commanded us to pay."

"You are prepared to pay it?" exclaimed the tschorbadji, joyously.

"Then our trouble is at an end. But pray why are you, the daughter of the noble, worthy sheik, here?"

"I have come, O master, because I have an act of mercy to implore at your hands. The men of Praousta are really not able to pay two hundred sequins, but what they lack in money I have in money's worth."

"You speak in enigmas, maiden," said the tschorbadji. "You have the money, and yet you have it not. What does this mean?"

"I have not the money in coined sequins," said she, looking toward the door as though she feared Mohammed might enter and be angry when she presented her love-offering. "Look at this, tschorbadji; these were my mother's jewels, but they are now mine, and no one else has a right to them. Gladly will I part with them for the sake of the men of our village. I have often been told that these jewels are worth more than a hundred sequins. I pray you, take them of me for that sum."

Still kneeling, she handed the tschorbadji the casket containing the jewelry. He took it and regarded it thoughtfully.

"Did it devolve upon me alone to decide this question, gladly would I take the jewelry, good maiden. But remember, I have sworn to Mohammed Ali that the prisoners should only then be released when the double tax shall have been paid in glittering gold-pieces. And I must keep my word. Gladly would I give you their value, but I must confess to the daughter of my sheik that I have not in my possession so large a sum. But remain here; a thought occurs to me," said he.

"The ambassador who comes from Stamboul for the tax, and who arrived here yesterday, brought with him for Couspouf Pacha a large purse filled with sequins. If I show him this jewelry and ask him--yes, I will do so. Remain here, maiden, until I return. You might think I would keep your jewels and not return. Take your jewelry and remain here. I am going in quest of one who may be able to assist us. I say us, for I, too, shall be much pleased if the matter can be settled in this peaceful manner. Wait here, daughter of my sheik, while I go in search of one who can settle this matter fit the satisfaction of all!"