He raised his arm. She sought to defend herself, and prayed for mercy. In vain! With a quick movement he lifted her veil, and fastened his gaze on her countenance. At that moment a cry resounded through the apartment, a cry of rage, and at the door of the adjoining room appeared Mohammed Ali, pale and infuriated. He was about to rush into the room, but with a bound the tachorbadji sprang to his side, grasped him with all the strength which his anxiety gave him, drew him back, closed the door, locked it, and drew the key out of the lock.

"You ought not to enter, and, by Allah, you shall not!"

"I must enter!" cried Mohammed, gnashing his teeth, and looking like an enraged lion, as he endeavored to wrest the key from the tschorbadji. But the latter grasped the key firmly, and anxiously called his son.

"What has happened?" asked Osman in anxious tones, as he entered the room. Mohammed stood still, controlling his wrath with a gigantic effort.

"You ask, Osman, what has happened. Within is Cousrouf Pacha with the sheik Alepp's daughter, and he treats with her for her honor and innocence, and she allows him to do so!" cried he, loudly and fiercely.

"That is not true," said the governor. "You accuse him wrongly.

There is no reason why all the world should not see and hear what is going on within. It is your fault alone that I found it necessary to lock the door. What was your object in coming?"

"I came because the decisive hour has arrived, and I saw, in the adjoining room, Cousrouf Pacha raising the girl's veil."

"You came and rushed past me like a madman. How do the girl's actions concern you. She came to seek deliverance for her father."

"How her actions concern me, you ask, tschorbadji?" he cried, clinching his fists. "How Masa's actions concern me, you wish to know?"

"Be still, Mohammed!" said Osman, whose keen vision had read the youth's soul, in low, entreating tones. "I pray you do not betray your secret."

Mohammed shook convulsively, and covered his face with his hands.

"It is true," he murmured. "I must and will be silent. She is lost to me. I will think of nothing but revenge, let all else be forgotten. --Tschorbadji, you swore that I alone should decide the fate of the prisoners, and you will keep your oath!"

"I will keep my oath, as beseems an honest man, yet I hope, Mohammed, that you will not be relentless; if you had heard, as I have, the poor young girl's lamentations, it would have softened your heart, and it would not have become necessary to resort to the pacha."

"As if he could assist her," he murmured to himself. "As if all assistance were not now out of the question."

"Be composed, Mohammed," said Osman, entreatingly, as he threw his arms around his friend's neck. "Do not complain, do not accuse. Be firm, and prove that you have a strong and noble heart."

He cried out in piercing tones, as the lion cries when it sees the hyena rending his young, as the eagle cries when the storm-wind sweeps away its nest with its young. Then in wild emotion he threw his arms around his friend's neck, and groaned heavily. Within, in the saloon, nothing could be heard of the loud talking in, the adjoining room. The pacha still held the veil high uplifted and gazed at Masa.

"What is your name?" asked he, in low, soft tones. She cast down her eyes before his passionate glances, and a deep blush suffused itself over her features, making her still, more beautiful.

"My name is Masa," replied the girl, in a low voice. "But I pray you, sir, let my veil fall over my face again. I am afraid!"

"Let me gaze on you one short moment longer," whispered he, ardently. "You are beautiful, Masa, as are the stars of heaven, as are the blush-roses in my garden. No, you are still more beautiful, for they soon fade, but you are in the rosy dawn of your loveliness, and your youth is still radiant in the morning-dew of innocence. Oh, you are surpassingly beautiful, and it seems to me the prophet has graciously sent me one of his houris from Paradise."

"I entreat you, sir, let go my veil," said she, in dismay, while two great tears trickled through her long black eyelashes and rolled down her cheeks.

"These are pearls, more beautiful pearls, Masa, than are contained in yonder casket," whispered the pacha. "They will be genuine pearls if you let me kiss them from your cheeks."

She stepped back proudly, tore the veil from his hand, and drew it down over her face again. "I have given no one the right to insult me, and you insult me!"

"How musical this sounds! How sweet three words of indignant innocence!"

At this moment Mohammed's voice, in loud, angry tones, was heard in the adjoining room. The pacha smiled, and motioned with his head in that direction.

"You have seen Mohammed Ali, and you now hear him; he is a desperado, and will kill your father!"

"Yes," she murmured to herself, "he will now be pitiless, he will now kill him."

"But I," said the pacha, in gentle tones, "I have pity, and I will save your father."

"You will save him?" she said, tremblingly.

"I will," said he. "But hear me, Masa, charming crimson rose, hear me."

"I am listening," said she, sobbing.

He did not heed this, but stepped nearer, and bent down over her.

"Masa, your jewelry I will not take, I want no such recompense; you shall even have money, all you may desire, if I can purchase you with it.

"Me, sir?" she cried, in horror. "You wish to purchase me?"

"Why are you so terrified? I have in my harem many women who are as beautiful and young as you are, and of much nobler birth, and they esteem themselves happy in belonging to me. But I tell you, Masa, I will hold you higher than them all. You shall rule over them all, and they shall all bow down before you, for Cousrouf Pacha will set them the example. By Allah! I swear it to you with the triple oath: not my slave, but my favorite, shall you be. Cousrouf Pacha will honor you as the first, as the queen of his harem."

"It is impossible, sir," she cried, in terror. "My father's daughter cannot sell herself. She is a free woman, and must remain so."

"Then remain so, and your father dies," said he, composedly. "Plume yourself with your freedom, but say, too, in your proud arrogance, that you are the murderess of your father. For, I say to you, Mohammed swore the oath, and he will keep it. Your father will die, and you will be his murderess."

"Allah be merciful! I cannot allow my father to die. No!" she groaned aloud.

"He dies if you do not accept what I offer. I repeat it, wealth and honors shall be yours. The daughter of the poor sheik of the wretched village shall become the favorite of the pacha. I shall not remain here long. The message will soon come that calls me to Stamboul; and you, Masa, shall go with me. At the court of the grand-vizier you shall be the first; I will honor you above all the rest, and lay at your feet all that I possess, for you are beautiful, and my heart is filled with love for you. I will make you happy at my side. And now decide. Without in the iron cage stands your father awaiting his deliverance, and here stands his daughter, and beside her Cousrouf Pacha, who offers her money, all she may desire, and lays every thing that he possesses at her feet. If you accept this offer, Masa, your father walks out of his prison a free man in spite of the blood-thirsty youth. Take the money and do not think I am purchasing you; it shall only be an earnest of your future. If you suppose you are to be, as you say, a slave, you are mistaken. You will only become the slave of your love for me."

"No, sir! never can I love you," she cried, vehemently.

"You cannot? It is thus the heart of the wild-dove speaks! Masa, you will, because you will be touched by my love. When you see me doing every thing to make you happy it will touch your heart, and you will love me."

At this moment loud cries and lamentations were heard from without.

"Those are the men of Praousta, who have come up and are lamenting.

Do you not hear the call from the mosque? The second hour of prayer is at hand, the time has came. Decide, Masa!"

She sank down on her knees, groaning; and prayed to Allah for mercy.

"O Mass," said the pacha, raising her from her knees, "Cousrouf prays to you, be merciful to your father; yield, be mine and save him."

Loud cries of grief again resounded without. Masa, shook with terror. "I cannot allow my father to die, I cannot! I yield, I am ready; give me the money, that I may bring it to these people."

"I will give it to you, and you shall rescue your father. And now you are mine; not my slave, but my queen. Go up into my harem while I take the money out to these people."

"No, not so," she cried, entreatingly. "Leave me my freedom for this one day only; let me remain this one day with my father, and do not let him have a suspicion of the price I have paid for his liberty."

"Then let it be so," said he, regarding her fixedly. "You swear, by the memory of your mother, that you will voluntarily return to my harem early to-morrow morning."

"I swear, by the memory of my mother, that I will return here early to-morrow morning."

"You will come to the back-gate of my garden, where my servants will await you to conduct you to me. And now I am going after the money.