"He wishes to leave to you alone the honor of having laid subjugated Egypt at the feet of his master the grand-sultan, in Stamboul. He has done what lay in his power. The most dangerous Mamelukes have fallen beneath his blows. Shall I narrate to your highness how it was done?"

Cousrouf signifies his assent. Hassan hastily relates the bloody story of the assassination of the Mamelukes in the roadstead of Aboukir, Cousrouf listening with the greatest attention. "The capitan pacha has erected a bloody but a great monument to himself,"

says be, when Hassan has finished his narrative. "Yet it is questionable whether I shall be benefited by it. It would, perhaps, have been wiser to reconcile ourselves with the Mamelukes, than to excite them to new anger."

"Highness, reconciliation with the Mamelukes is impossible," replies Hassan. "The capitan pacha, who has ever been faithful in your service, wishes to give you a final proof of his friendship."

"And in what does this proof consist?" asks Cousrouf.

"He sends your highness a hero who has the determination to do all things, and the capacity to do all he determines. He gave evidence of his courage and address at Aboukir. The capitan pacha can leave you no better token of his friendship than this young hero, who is entirely devoted to you. May I present this last best gift of the capitan pacha; may I present to your highness the young bim bashi?"

The pacha nods his assent, and Hassan noiselessly withdraws, returning in a few moments, accompanied by the young bim bashi, so warmly recommended to the viceroy. Cousrouf Pacha wearily raises his head and casts a glance of indifference at the tall figure of the bim bashi; but as his glance falls on the young man's countenance, he starts. It seems, to him that he has seen those eagle eyes before. He hastily casts his eyes down, and then looks up again at the bim bashi, who holds his head proudly erect, awaiting the viceroy's address.

"What is your name, bim bashi? Where do you come from?" asks Cousrouf, after along pause.

The bim bashi advances a step, and, looking steadily in the viceroy's countenance, bows profoundly. "My name is Mohammed Ali, and I come from Cavalla."

"Cavalla!" repeats Cousrouf, with a start. Now he remembers that he has sometimes seen these eyes before him in sleepless nights. They have impressed themselves deeply into his heart with their fearful glances. The haughty pacha had never reproached himself for killing the slave Masa--that was his right; he acted according to law when he punished the runaway slave by death--but it was cruel to compel the man who loved her to witness her death. Cousrouf had felt this at the time, and that was why these eyes had penetrated his heart like daggers' points. But that was long ago, and these eyes are now very different. They no longer glitter with curses; they now sparkle with animation, energy, and courage, only.

"You come from Cavalla," says he, after a pause, "and your name is Mohammed Ali? It seems to me that once, when I sojourned for a time at Cavalla, I also knew a Mohammed Ali, a daring young lad, the friend of Osman, with whose father I resided; I had appointed Osman bim bashi of the soldiers he was to bring over to me, and I also permitted him to select young Mohammed Ali as his boulouk bashi. Yet Osman has not come, nor do you appear to be the Mohammed Ali I then knew."

"Pardon me, highness," said Mohammed Ali, with a slight smile, for he well understood the secret meaning of this question, "pardon me, highness, I am this Mohammed, and yet another. The first was a bold, insolent lad, who dared to defy your authority and refused to bow his head in humility before your highness. He who now stands before you, however, is your devoted servant, who brings you greetings from his friend Osman. He is deeply touched by your graciousness, and, hoping for a continuance of your favor, he undertook to do your bidding. But alas! the will of man is often frustrated by bodily weakness. It was thus with my friend Osman. The first day of the conflict at Aboukir prostrated him so completely that he was compelled to return home to Cavalla, and the capitan graciously granted his request and placed me in his position. Yet I lay my new dignity at your feet; all that I am I wish to receive at your hands."

Cousrouf had regarded him fixedly while he spoke, and had listened attentively to his words and voice. He was satisfied with him. "Yes, Mohammed, you are right," said Cousrouf; "there is nothing of the fierce boy of those days in you now. Your voice is flattering, and your words well chosen and devoted, and Cousrouf will attach you to himself through gratitude. He will cherish you, and make of you a devoted servant. You say, you lay your dignity of bim bashi at my feet?"

"Yes, highness, I lay all at your feet; and all that I am I wish to receive at your hands."

"Well, then, if your destiny rests with me, I must promote the bim bashi to a higher dignity. From this moment the bim bashi is the sarechsme, the general of the Albanian troops. You are their countryman, and you shall be their leader."

"O highness, how great is your generosity!" exclaims Mohammed, his countenance beaming with joy.

Cousrouf had observed him closely, and the young man's delight showed him that he had acquired in Mohammed a true and devoted friend, and he will have great need of such friends in the impending struggles to uphold his power, which the course pursued by his friend the capitan pacha will have made inevitable. The bloody massacre at Aboukir, which the capitan claims as a friendly service rendered him, has, he well knows, made him many passionate and irreconcilable enemies. Yes, he needs true friends, and Mohammed shall be chained to his service through gratitude.

Mohammed expresses his gratitude and devotion in such eloquent terms that Cousrouf's heart is touched, and he feels impelled to address some kindly words to the new sarechsme. He dismisses Hassan Aga with friendly greetings to the capitan pacha, and motioned to the sarechsme to remain. Cousrouf walks thoughtfully to and fro in the room for a time, his gold-embroidered caftan trailing on the carpet behind him, and the crescent on his turban glittering in the sunlight. Mohammed raises his eyes for an instant, and sees the figure sweep past him like a brilliant meteor. Quickly he casts down his eyes again, that his soul's inmost thoughts may not be betrayed, and least of all to the viceroy. No one but Allah hears the oath that now resounds in his soul, as he stands in an humble attitude at the door, waiting to be addressed. "I have sworn vengeance, and I will keep my oath. Vengeance for Masa; vengeance for the torments I have endured. My head is now bowed in humility before you, yet I swear to repay you for the evil you have done me; not by killing you, but by torturing your soul. We are alone, without witnesses; it were an easy thing to slay you. The door stands open, and I could flee before the deed could be known. But death is no revenge for years of torture. You shall live, and live in agony and pain. Thus will Mohammed Ali be avenged!"

In his heart he swears this oath. His lips do not quiver; no feature of his countenance betrays what is passing within. Cousrouf stands still before him, and lays his hand on Mohammed's shoulder. "Look at me, Mohammed!"

The latter looks up, and the eyes of both are firmly fixed on each other. The young general divines Cousrouf's thoughts, but the pacha does not divine Mohammed's.

"You said that the Mohammed of the days when I resided in Cavalla is dead. Is it true?"

"Yes, highness, it is true. He is dead, or he has at least transformed himself into a better man. Yet, highness, he suffered much before he could accomplish this transformation."

"That I can readily believe," says Cousrouf, in low tones. "I have often regretted having caused you this misery. Yet you must have become satisfied yourself, young man, that I could not do otherwise.

I acted in accordance with the law."

"You only acted in accordance with the law," replies Mohammed, in a low voice. "The law ordains that the faithless runaway be punished, and also he with whom she has fled. The captured slave was killed, and it seems to me it was an act of clemency to permit him who loved her to witness her execution without being able to help her. Yes, an act of great clemency. You might have punished me more severely."

Again Cousrouf gazes into his countenance searchingly. The tone of his voice is mild and submissive, yet his words bear stings.

"I should think, Mohammed, that death itself were preferable to the punishment of being compelled to witness the execution of the beloved without being able to help her. In the years that have since passed, I have often thought that it was cruel, and wished I had not dealt so harshly with you. Does it suffice that I confess this to you? Will you say this to the other--the dead and transformed--and will it console him?"

"O master, what magnanimity!" exclaims Mohammed.

"You are generous enough to confess that you feel regret at having done justice to that slave?"

"I was passionate, and you had excited my wrath," replies the pacha, gently inclining his head.

"Not I, highness," says Mohammed, smiling. "Not I, the sarechsme, but that wild, insolent boy, Mohammed, of whom no trace now remains.

He is buried in the sea, at the place where the waves closed over Masa. Yet, if that Mohammed still lived and heard what you say, he would bow down in the dust before the great man who condescends to confess that he regrets what he has done. However, should I see that Mohammed, I will tell him of this never-to-be-forgotten magnanimity."

"I will give you a souvenir of this hour," says Cousrouf, gently. "I am so happy myself to-day that I desire to see the happy only about me. You are now a general. I should like to see you worthily fitted out for your new dignity. Have you a steed suitable to your rank?"

"I am poor, highness, and have nothing but the salary which your highness will bestow on me."

"Above all, you must have a good horse. I have received from the grand-sultan, in Stamboul, in honor of my entrance into Cairo, four beautiful horses. I make you a present of one of them. Go down to the stables; they shall be shown you, and you shall select the one that pleases you best. Be still! no word of thanks! Show your gratitude by serving me faithfully. Are you already provided with a dwelling?"

"No, highness. The bim bashi had but just arrived with Hassan Aga from Alexandria, and has as yet had no time to look after a dwelling."

"A house shall be prepared for you," said the pacha; "I will see to this myself. Remain in my palace to-day; tomorrow you shall have a house of your own. Now go and select the best of the horses. I hope you are a connoisseur, and will easily pick out the best one; it shall be delivered to you completely equipped." He calls a slave who stood waiting without, and commands him to conduct the sarechsme to the courtyard, and order the horses to be led before him.

Mohammed, his head bowed down in profound reverence, withdraws to the door, walking backward. Cousrouf follows him with his eyes until the door has closed behind him, and then a smile glides over his countenance.

"This man is won over to my interests. He is right; he is transformed, body and soul, and he is mine. And truly such a friend is a valuable possession."

Mohammed descends with the slave to the court-yard. The latter hastily summons the equerry, and delivers his master's message. The beautiful horses, with their splendid trappings, are now led before Mohammed. The new sarechsme selects the handsomest and best; he wishes to show the viceroy that he can judge of the beauty and fire of a horse. Mohammed then retires to the rooms set apart for him in a wing of the palace. When left alone, his grave countenance relaxes, and a triumphant smile plays about his lips.

"The work is begun," murmurs he to himself. "The viceroy has himself called his enemy to his side. He thinks, with his favor and flattery, to make me forget what I have endured. He shall learn that Mohammed Ali never forgives. You are lost, Cousrouf, for you slumber, while I watch and will take advantage of your slumber.

Beware, Cousrouf, beware! I will not be your murderer, you shall live, but I will humble you; you shall sink down in the dust before me! Let that be the revenge for Masa, my white dove, and for myself!"

CHAPTER IX

SITTA NEFYSSEH.

She was reposing in her garden-kiosk. She had ordered her female slaves to place themselves in the rear of some rose-bushes in the background, and make sweet harmony with their cymbals and clarinets.

She wished to be left alone with her thoughts. She lay reclining at full length on her silver-embroidered silken cushions. The white silk dress, inworked with crimson roses, enfolded her closely, displaying the contour of her graceful form. The sunlight pierced the airy latticework of the kiosk, around which clustered roses and orange-blossoms, and shed a soft light over her charming countenance. The veil, which Sitta Nefysseh only wears when she goes into the streets or meets strangers in her house, is laid aside.

Beautiful is Sitta Nefysseh, more beautiful than a young girl, than the unblown rose, radiant with loveliness and dignity. "Queen of the Roses," thus is she called by all Cairo.

Who does not know her--who has not heard of her, of the Rose of Cairo, of the wife of the great Mourad Bey, the Mameluke chieftain?

Even the Franks bowed humbly before her grace and dignity, and the scha-er sings and relates, on the street-corners, of the French general, Kleber, who loved Mourad's beautiful wife, and who often, in the stillness of the evening, haunted the vicinity of his palace, awaiting, perhaps, an opportunity to invade the harem in which the Rose of Cairo dwelt. And in his songs he also intimates that the dagger-stroke which lay the general low near the palace, was dealt at the instigation of the jealous bey.

Who does not know Sitta Nefysseh, the benefactress of the poor, the proud heroine who fought at her husband's side, who shared with Mourad the dangers of war, a heroine in battle, a gentle, modest woman in the harem?

All is still about her. The waters of the fountains near the kiosk murmur gently as they fall in the basins beneath, as if to lull the beautiful woman to rest with their music, and now the soft music from behind the rose-bushes is also wafted over, to the kiosk.