Cousrouf received this intelligence with wrath.

"Are all the devils let loose? Hardly have I been compelled to liberate this insolent woman, when I am defied by rebellious soldiers. They shall be taught that I am master, and that to threaten me is to destroy themselves. Let the artillerists stand by their guns, with burning fuses, and await my orders! Let the soldiers be drawn up around the fortress with loaded muskets! And you, messenger, go back to your master, and tell him to send the rebels to me. I will give them the reception they deserve."

The messenger returned by the same secret passage to his master, and delivered the viceroy's message, and the delighted defterdar presented himself on the balcony once more.

"Go to the citadel, to the viceroy, he will receive you, and give you your money; I have none!"

"Allah il Allah !" cried the soldiers. "The viceroy is a great man!

He will deal justly with us!"

The dense masses of rebels surged up the Muskj Street toward the citadel. They have reached their destination. There stands the citadel. But what does this mean? The gates are closed. "The viceroy has sent for us; we wish to see him to demand our pay!" Suddenly the guns of the fortress hurl their deadly contents among them. "We are betrayed! They are murdering us!" yell the infuriated rebels, drawing their ataghans, and rushing upon the Turkish soldiers who are endeavoring to drive them from the citadel, fighting them man to man. And now the three hours have elapsed, and new masses of soldiers are storming up the height! These are Mohammed Ali's troops, now let loose! Like the others, they clamor for pay, and, like the others, they rush upon the Turkish soldiers. The revolt is now general.

Taker Pacha, as well as Mohammed Ali, hears it; but the latter remains quietly in his room. Taker Pacha, less discreet, hastens forth to suppress, or, if the prospect seems favorable, to encourage the revolt. He repairs to the citadel and sends the viceroy word that he desires an audience.

"Tell his highness I wish to restore the city to tranquillity; and, if possible, appease the soldiers."

The messenger soon returns with a dejected look. "It is in vain, general, in vain! His highness desires no peaceful settlement. He says he will make no compromise with rebels! You are to return to your house; he says he can dispose of these rebels without any assistance!"

"Is that his opinion?" asked Taher, bowing profoundly. "The wisdom of the viceroy is inscrutable. I retire, as he commands."

He hastily quitted the apartment, went down to his soldiers and called his bim bashis to his side.

"I was with his highness, and endeavored to settle this difficulty without further bloodshed. But he declined, and said there could be no settlement between you and him except at the cannon's mouth, and that be would pay you with your own blood!"

The soldiers answered their general's words with a fierce roar; when this at last subsided, he continued: "The viceroy says the defterdar is to pay you--that you must look to him. Let us do so, soldiers!

Let us compel him to pay!"

"Yes, be shall pay us!" cried they; and the wild masses again rushed to the house of the defterdar.

The closed gates are torn asunder; and Taher Pacha's Armenians and Mohammed Ali's Albanians run with savage cries into the house.

"I have no money!" cries the defterdar, with pale, trembling lips.

"Where are your books, your accounts? We will take you, together with your books, to our general."

"Do so, do so!" groaned the defterdar, pointing to his books. "Take me, with my books, to Taher Pacha."

Onward the wild mass surged with their prisoner and his accounts.

They passed the house of Mohammed Ali, who stood at the window, and looked down at them with a smile of satisfaction.

"The revolt is firmly established; Taher Pacha is at its head, and we shall see how he conducts the matter."

CHAPTER VIII

THE INSURRECTION.

From the citadel the thunder of the artillery and the fierce shouts of the people still resounded. Mohammed heard the uproar throughout the entire night. The soldiers continually pressed forward to replace their comrades shot down by the murderous volleys from the fortress.

Mohammed remained quietly in his house. True, his soldiers have joined the rebels, but who can hold him responsible, and why should he expose himself to the danger of being refused obedience should he demand it of them?

Taher Pacha thinks differently. During the night he had examined the books of the defterdar, held a prisoner in his house, and had been compelled to admit that he was innocent, and had no money with which to pay off the soldiers.

On the following morning he announced to his soldiers that the defterdar was innocent, and the viceroy alone guilty. He had accumulated and possessed money and treasure, and could pay the soldiers if he would. He had, however, determined to keep for himself all the money sent from Stamboul for the troops.

The intelligence rapidly spreads among the soldiers that Cousrouf has money, and can pay if he will.

"And pay he shall!" cries Taher Pacha. "I will march with you into his stronghold. Woe to him; he has begun this work of slaughter, and must take the consequences!"

The gates are closed and barred. What care the soldiers, encouraged by their general's approach, for that?" The walls can be scaled!" No sooner said than done. Like cats, the first climb over the high wall, and the rest follow. The guards within are overpowered, and the gates are thrown open. And now all rush in intent on victory, and, above all, on obtaining money.

The viceroy's khaznadar advances to meet them with a body of soldiers. Taher Pacha calls on him to surrender. The coward obeys, and lays down his arms. Cousrouf sits quietly in his apartment, little dreaming of what has taken place.

"Let them fight on; in a short time these rebels and traitors will yield, and sue for mercy. I will have their heads severed from their bodies, and sent to Stamboul as trophies of victory!"

But what does this strange noise mean?

A volley resounds from beneath Cousrouf's windows.

A Nubian rushes into his apartment, and announces, in tones of dismay: "You are betrayed, the khaznadar has surrendered, and the rebels are storming the palace."

Cousrouf bounds from his seat, hurls from him his chibouque, and quickly girds on his sword.

"We will hurl them back. Let Mohammed Ali come with his troops. He will vanquish them and overthrow the traitor, Taher Pacha. Right royally shall Mohammed Ali be rewarded if he comes to my assistance; and come he will. He is at least no traitor, and will never make common cause with rebels. You, my Nubians, my body-guard, my brave followers, ascend to the battlement and turn the guns upon the rebels who surround us."

They obey his command, and their guns are soon thundering down into the ranks of the rebels.

Mohammed does not come to the viceroy's assistance; he is ill, and has been confined to his room ever since Taher Pacha has been besieging the citadel with his soldiers. Nor will his illness permit him to leave the house now, and his servant announces to all comers and to the soldiers that the sarechsme is very, very ill.

After two days have elapsed, he asks the physician, who is feeling his pulse, in a weak voice and with an air of indifference, how matters are progressing at the citadel; whether the traitor, Taher Pacha, still presumes to besiege the viceroy in his palace, and laments his inability to fly to his master's, assistance with his troops. When the physician tells him that the rebels had stormed the citadel, and that Cousrouf had fled, Mohammed shudders and sinks back upon his couch. Truly, he is very ill! How could this intelligence otherwise have so fearful an effect?

"Yes, Cousrouf has fled; he hoped for your assistance in vain, and was compelled to yield when it did not come. Yes, sarechsme, he fled secretly through the back gate of the citadel into the desert with his faithful body-guard and his women."

"And Taber Pacha?" asks Mohammed, eagerly.

"Taber Pacha has proclaimed himself caimacan. On my way here I met the cadi of the sheiks going to the citadel to present the robe of fur to the caimacan, in token of their recognition."

Loud and derisive laughter resounds from Mohammed Ali's lips.

"Really the sarechsme is very ill, and in a fearful state of excitement! His head may be affected by it. It may become dangerous."

The physician prescribes cooling applications for his head, and goes in person to superintend their preparation.

The door has hardly closed behind the physician, when Mohammed bounds from his bed.