"Perhaps," replied the pacha, composedly, rising slowly from his cushions to quiet the governor, with haughty condescension.

"So soon? Then it is indeed true? We had heard so, but we could not and would not believe it. We love you so dearly that we shall unwillingly see you depart. Even my son, my poor sick Osman, who cannot walk up a stairway because of his weakness, has requested that he may be permitted to come in person to take leave of you, and to beg that you will remember and be gracious to him in the future also. Will your excellency permit his servants to bring him in?"

Cousrouf Pacha made no reply, but arose, walked hastily to the door, opened it himself, and stepped out to Osman, who lay on the couch, beside which stood the slaves who had brought him up.

"Osman, I thank you for this proof of your friendly consideration.-- Take hold now, ye dogs, and bear your master into the room!"

He walked beside the couch while the slaves bore it into the room, and deposited it, at his command, beside his own cushions.

"Now come, too, tschorbadji, and seat yourself at our side, and let us smoke the chibouque together for the last time."

"The pipe of peace, Cousrouf Pacha, as the savages do when seated together for the last time in their wigwam," said Osman, smiling.

The pacha cast a searching glance at him.

"Tschorbadji, you have a very learned son. I know nothing of such things, have never heard of them. Who smoke the pipe of peace?"

"The savages in America, when they become reconciled to their enemies, and receive them in their wigwam."

"But that has no application to us. In the first place, we are not savages, but very respectable and considerable people; and secondly, I trust I am not receiving enemies here, with whom it is necessary to smoke the pipe of peace."

"Certainly not, but very faithful friends and devoted servants, who have come to bid you a last farewell."

"You are right, tschorbadji, a last farewell, I trust," said the pacha, laughing. "For (and forgive me for saying so) it is horribly dull here in your city of Cavalla. Your revolutionary fishermen and the rest of the rabble here would make my life intolerable. I admire you, tschorbadji, for having the courage to bear it--and particularly you, my dear Osman. You should endeavor to obtain some position in Stamboul. There you would recover your health; the rude sea air here is assuredly injurious to your weak lungs."

"I wish he would do so," said the tscborbadji, with a sigh. "You are certainly right, the keen sea air, and the rough storms that often surge down from the mountains are injurious to my son, but it is different in Stamboul, where one is protected from the surrounding mountains. I wish he would go to Stamboul, and that you would assist him in obtaining a suitable position there."

"Father," replied Osman, gently, "I will not separate myself from you. Wherever you are there will I remain, for we two are inseparable."

"Then a better place must be found for your father, Osman."

"If that could be, excellency, I should be happy indeed!" cried the governor.

"I am under obligations to you, tschorbadji," observed the pacha, bowing haughtily. "I am really greatly in your debt. With all my servants I have been your guest for three years, and I vainly urged you to accept payment. Indeed, I hardly dared speak of it to the wealthy and distinguished tschorbadji, and it was not fitting to attempt to remunerate him, But yet, I assure you, this weight of gratitude rests heavily on me. I have accepted your hospitality without recompense for these three long years. Now, however, tschorbadji, now that Cousrouf Pacha is about to return to Stamboul, he can at last repay this burden of gratitude and debt. You are my friend, and I now beg you to tell me of something I can do for you.

Cousrouf Pacha now has power and influence which he will exert for those he loves. Therefore I entreat you, tschorbadji, acquaint me with your wishes."

"I have no other wishes than those of my son. They call me here an affectionate father, and mention me as an example of passionate paternal love, and they are right. My Osman is every thing to me; he is my wife, child, sister, friend, comrade, my all. What Osman wishes that is my wish also. Therefore, if it so pleases you, transfer your gracious favor to my son, and grant his request, if he has one to prefer."

"I swear by my beard, by Allah, and by the prophet, if Osman expresses a wish, I will grant it certainly and surely. I repeat my triple oath, and call Allah to witness it. What he requests I will grant!"

"You have heard this oath, father, and Allah has heard it, too,"

said Osman, solemnly rising from his couch and turning the gaze of his large luminous eyes full on the pacha's countenance. "I have a wish, a great, a cherished wish."

"And can I grant it?"

"You can if you will."

"Certainly I will, for I am now bound by the triple oath. It is sacred to every Moslem, and sacred to me at all times. So speak, Osman, and I will grant what you request."

Osman rose from his seat, and the pale, weak youth stood there with so solemn an expression that the tschorbadji and the pacha involuntarily arose from their cushions.

"Cousrouf Pacha, hear my wish: I require, wish, and expect of you, that you hold sacred, that is, that you neither personally, nor through any one else, insult or injure the person of my friend Mohammed Ali, the only being I love beside my father."

The pacha regarded him with a long, gloomy, threatening look, and made no reply. Osman read in his face the struggle that was raging in his soul, and continued in gentle tones:

"Cousrouf Pacha, look at me. I am a frail reed, liable to be thrown to the ground by every breath of wind. I am a poor blade of grass upon the sea-shore, liable to be swept to destruction by each wave.

Oh, grant me this request, in order that, while the sun still shines for me, I may enjoy the last hours of my existence in peace!"

"Yes, do so, mighty pacha," cried the tschorbadji, bursting into tears, and falling upon his knees with folded hands. "Cousrouf Pacha, see me here at your feet, and grant my son's request in order that he may live. I know that he loves Mohammed Ali, that he loves him even more than his father. He fears that his friend is in danger through you!"

"And why do you fear this, Osman?" asked the pacha, slowly and angrily.

"I fear it," replied Osman, softly, "because I well know that Mohammed has often offended you. He is still so young and impetuous, and the consciousness of his poverty and obscure descent burdens his soul and irritates him, in the presence of your greatness and power."

"And yet he dares, in his littleness, to meet me with haughty words and to look at me as though he were my equal! Should the boy not step respectfully aside, and bow his head in humility, when he sees me? You are right, Osman, I hate this proud, obstinate lad!"

"I have uttered my only wish," said Osman, gently. "You will grant it, for I have your triple oath. I repeat my wish once more: Cousrouf Pacba, protect and spare my friend Mohammed Ali; swear that no harm shall be done him, either by you or by your servants. Let no wicked hand seek his life, neither by poison, by weapons, nor by any other means. Let him go his way in peace. By the triple oath which you have sworn, I conjure you to grant this wish."

The pacha regarded him long and gloomily, and then bowed his head slowly.

"I swore the triple oath, and Cousrouf Pacha has never yet broken his word. Your wish is accorded; the life of this lad shall be sacred to me henceforth; no hair of his head shall be injured; his life shall not be sought either by poison, by dagger, or by other means; he may go his way in peace, but woe to him if we should meet elsewhere than here, in Cavalla, where I honor my host and my oath!

Be assured now and fear nothing. Mohammed Ali's life is sacred to me; I swear it!"

"I am content, and I thank you. You have made me happier than I have been for a long time. I do not deny that Mohammed has sometimes deserved to be reprimanded for his conduct, but, I also repeat, he, is still so young, his heart so fiery, his soul so full of ardor and nobility. He will yet learn to conform to the customs of the world."

"I sincerely hope he may," said the pacha, quietly. "As yet he has, however, not learned it; he should come to Stamboul--there he would be taught to bend his proud neck. Tell me, Osman, have I now paid off the debt of gratitude that rested on my shoulders?"

"You have now transferred it to our shoulders," exclaimed the tschorbadji, ardently. "See how happy my Osman looks; how his countenance is wreathed in smiles! There is no trace of sorrow or pain in his features now; joy is restoring him to health; and I owe this to you, and shall continue to thank you for it, when you are no longer here. We wish you all happiness! Our friend and benefactor, the great general, Cousrouf Pacha, will in the future be called on to perform great things, and the report of his glory and power will reach us here on our peninsula."

"I hope it may," said the pacha, softly, as he proudly inclined his head. "Yes, I hope it may. My glory will resound throughout the world, and may, perhaps, be trumpeted forth by the virgin Fame, so favorable to me, even here in this rocky nest. The imperial majesty in Stamboul has elected me to great things, and Allah will permit me to live to fulfil them."

"He will certainly do so," protested the governor.--"And now, my son, with his excellency's permission, I will call the slaves, and have you carried down again. I am afraid we are trespassing on valuable time, as his excellency will have many things to attend to."

The pacha assented to this by his silence, and the governor hastened to call the slaves, that they might bear his son down into the garden.

The pacha pressed Osman's hand once more, assured him of his friendship, and promised him solemnly that Mohammed need no longer be fearful and anxious.

"And he is not," cried Osman, quickly; "he fears nothing."

"Be still, my son," exclaimed the governor, interrupting him hastily; "his excellency only means that he will be considerate with him, and that you will have nothing to fear on Mohammed's account.

And now, come, let us go."

He then bowed profoundly to the pacha, and walked out beside the couch on which the slaves were carrying his son.

The pacha's countenance grew still darker when the door had closed behind father and son.

"This Osman is shrewd," he murmured to himself. "He knows how to divine one's thoughts.--Achmed and Ali, come in!"

The eunuchs glided in through the side-entrance, and remained standing near the door, their heads profoundly inclined. He slowly raised his hand, and beckoned to them to come nearer.