The inhabitants of Praousta had insisted on making the release of the sheik and the ulemas the occasion of general rejoicing, and the latter were compelled to yield to the general desire and take part in the festivities.
But it is well that evening is now come, and that the night is spreading her rest-bringing mantle over the earth. It is well that the opportunity has at last come to breathe freely in the stillness of one's chamber, and to thank Allah, with earnest prayer, for having given them a happy issue out of the cares and dangers of the preceding day.
The sheik has finished his prayer in the silence of his chamber. He now lightly ascends the stairway to the harem where his beloved child, his Masa, sojourns. Before the door of her chamber sits Djumeila, the faithful servant, and with upraised hand she motions to the sheik to step softly and make no noise, that Masa may not be disturbed.
"You know, master, that she has been complaining the whole day. Anxiety and care for you, and the pain and exposure she has endured, have made my dove ill, and she has gone to her room to rest and restore her strength. She therefore requests you, through me, to allow her to remain undisturbed until tomorrow morning. She has not been able to sleep at all during the day, and has continually wept and complained; but at last, toward evening she partook of some food and fell asleep. Yesterday she was so courageous and strong, but today she has been weak and dejected. Before going to sleep she called me to her bedside and told me to bear her greeting to her father; and to say to him that she hoped to be entirely recovered by tomorrow morning, and would come down to breakfast to hand you, my master, your coffee and chibouque."
"It is well," said the sheik, softly. "Let my child rest, let my Masa sleep; tread lightly, and be careful that you do not disturb her. I, too, feel that I need sleep. Let the whole house repose, and avoid making any noise before tomorrow morning. Then I will come to her room to see her."
The old man took off his shoes and noiselessly descended the stairway to his bed-chamber. It was now still in the house. All Praousta was silent. The people were resting from the pleasures of today, and the anxiety and care of yesterday.
In Cavalla, also, all was now quiet. The windows of the tschorbadji's palace were dark, and silence prevailed everywhere. The governor and his son Osman had retired to rest.
In the apartments occupied by Cousrouf Pacha darkness also prevails, and in the harem the blinds have been let down behind the latticed windows. One room alone is dimly lighted. On the table stands a silver lamp, which sheds a faint light through the spacious room, upon the gold-embroidered caftan of the pacba, and upon his proud, gloomy countenance. He rises from his seat, and walks hastily through the room. He then suddenly stands still. The pacha waits the arrival of the girl he has purchased with the blood-money given for her father.
All is quiet in the tschorbadji's palace, and also in the sheik's house. The windows are dark, the gate is locked. Now she will come: she has given her word; she has sworn by Allah; she has sworn by the spirit of her mother; she has sworn by all she holds sacred. She will come for the daughter of Alepp knows that one who breaks a treble oath is doomed to inevitable destruction, and walks a welcome prey to the evil spirits, to the ghins. Surely, she will not dare to do this! She will come--she must come.
Something rustles in the garden. The pacha steps hastily to the window, throws it open, and looks out eagerly into the darkness. It is well that the moon is at this moment concealed by clouds; he might otherwise now see her coming up the walk from the end of the avenue. No, nothing approaches. It is not the beautiful virgin, with the eyes of the gazelle, with the light, airy step. How beautiful she is, how fair, how lovely! Is she not yet coming? Does he not hear approaching footsteps? No, neither of the eunuchs is stealthily approaching to announce to his mighty master that the virgin has entered the harem.
He stands and waits, his face quivering with anger and impatience. He is angry with the girl for daring to come so late. But come she will, and come she must; for whoever breaks the treble oath is lost before Allah and the prophet. He remains at the window, looking out into the quiet garden and dark night for a long time. The wind extinguishes the lamp that stands on the table. Now all is profound darkness. It is dark in the garden, and in the room. It is dark, too, in Cousrouf Pacha's breast.
"Woe to her, if she dares to break her oath! In that case, I will go, with my servants, in the brlight of day, to-morrow, to the sheik's house, and demand my property--my slave. Mine is she, for I purchased her with money which she accepted. Then, however, she shall not be my queen, but my slave--my servant. Come she shall, by Allah! I must possess her, for I love her with all the passion of my heart."
He bends forward, and listens attentively again. He hardly dares to breathe, and his heart throbs loudly as he anxiously gazes out into the garden. He does not notice that the hours are rapidly passing; to him it seems an eternity of waiting.
Without, at the garden-gate, the two watchful eunuchs are still standing. They, like their master, have been looking out into the darkness, and listening throughout the entire night.
"No sign of her yet," said one of the eunuchs to the other. "Woe to the girl if she dares to deceive our mighty master! She thinks, perhaps, he will abandon his claim. There will be a nice piece of work to be done tomorrow. Cousrouf Pacha, our mighty master, is not in the habit of being trifled with. He will send us down after his property, and there will be no lack of bloody heads in Praousta, tomorrow; for we shall certainly have to regain possession of this slave. He says she accepted the purchase-money, and she therefore belongs to the master who bought her. Will she come, or shall we have to get possession of her by force tomorrow?"
"I hope she will come of her own word," said the other. "These fishermen are so brave, and have such hard fists."
"And I hope she will not," said the first, laughing. "We must take her by force. I should relish just such a row. If they have hard fists, we have sharp, glittering weapons. And then, as you know, the soldiers are coming to take up their quarters here tomorrow; the tschorbadji will send a part of them to help us when the company arrives."
The pacha is still standing at the window, looking out into the night. He raises his hands threateningly, and his eyes glitter like those of the panther, lying in wait for his prey.
"Woe to her if she breaks the triple oath! Cousrouf Pacha will know how to avenge himself. She must become mine--she is mine already. I have bought this slave, and, by Allah, what I have bought I will also possess!"
At last, day dawns. The sun sends out into the heavens its purple heralds, and it begins to grow lighter in the garden. The pacha now sees a figure coming up the walk. It is one of the eunuchs. He goes noiselessly into the house, to his master.
"Has she come?" asks he, with quivering lips.
"No, master, she has not come. The path that leads up from the village is still empty. Shall we wait longer, master?"
" No," he gruffly replies. "Lock the gate and retire to the harem. It must be a misunderstanding; she supposed I meant the following evening. Go!"
The eunuch prostrates himself to the earth, and takes his departure, gliding stealthily out into the garden. When he feels assured that no one can see or hear him, be stands still, and laughs mockingly: "It is a great pleasure to see a grand gentleman now and then humiliated like the rest of us. He was terribly annoyed; I could tell it by his voice. Serves him right! I am delighted to see that grand gentlemen have to put up with disagreeable things sometimes, too--truly delighted."
With a sorrowful expression of countenance he now walks on down to the garden-gate, where the other eunuch is waiting, and tells him his gracious master has made his reckoning without his host, and that his purchased slave's failure to come has grieved him deeply.
They looked at each other, and the dawning light showed that they nodded triumphantly, with a malicious, mocking grin. They understood each other well, without telling in words what they were laughing about and rejoicing over.
The morning had come in its full splendor, and the town and village had again awakened to life and activity. The sheik, too, had arisen; had already turned to the east, and finished his prayers, and repaired to his daughter's room. She had told him, through her servant, the evening before, that she would come to him early in the morning, to hand him his coffee and chibouque. But Masa, did not come, and the father's heart is filled with an inexplicable feeling of anxiety. He hastily ascends the stairway. Djumeila no longer watches before the door; she has gone, and is perhaps busied with her morning occupations.
The sheik opens the door of his daughter's sitting-room.
"Masa" he cries, "it is time to come down to breakfast." He supposes she is within, in her bedchamber, and has not heard him. "Masa," he cries again, "come out, my child, come to your father."
All is still as before. He calls for the third time; no one replies.
"Masa, where are you, my child?" The sheik anxiously walks through the sitting-room to the little chamber where his daughter's bed stands: no one there either. " Masa, my child, my darling, where are you?"
He stands still, listening for an answer; he breathes heavily when as yet no answer comes, but consoles himself with the thought that she has already gone down, and is awaiting him below, while he is seeking her in her rooms above.
Hastily, with the quick step of youth, the sheik descends the stairway again, but Masa was not there. The father's calls grow louder and more anxious.
"Masa, where are you? My beloved child, come to your father."
All remains still. No answer comes to the father's anxious calls.
The sheik now hurries to the kitchen, where breakfast is being prepared; Djumeila is standing there at the hearth, perfectly composed, attending to her cooking. She salutes her master with a deferential air.
"Where is Masa, my daughter? " cries the sheik.
"I do not know, master," she quietly replies; "I have not yet seen her today. Early in the morning, before sunrise, I went out to the meadow to milk the goats, that my child, my darling Masa, might have fresh sweet milk for her breakfast; since then I have been occupied with getting breakfast ready, and now you ask me 'Where is Masa?'"
"Spare your words and listen: Masa has vanished; Masa is not in her room."
Djumeila cries out loudly: "Where is Masa? where is my white dove?"
She rushes out and runs to her mistress's room; and, not finding her there, falls to weeping and wringing her hands in despair.
"Where is my beloved child? she is not with her father, she is not in her room." She then hastens to the other maid-servant. "Where is Masa? has no one seen my master's daughter? has no one seen my beloved child?"
The sheik stood in the hall and listened to Djumeila's cries and the answer of the other servant. He then walked rapidly all over the house again, called his daughter's name loudly once more, and stood still to listen for an answer.
"But it is foolish to be so anxious. Masa is fond of going out to the sea to listen to the murmuring and whispering of the waves. My child is pious, and may have gone to the mosque to pray and to thank Allah. That is it--she has gone to the mosque."
The sheik rushes out into the street. It is well that the mosque is not far from his dwelling. The doors are open; Masa is surely there, probably on her knees in one of the recesses, addressing herself to her prayers. No, she is not there; the recesses are empty, and she is not up in the choir with the women either.
"She is nowhere in the mosque; but she may be down on the beach."
The sheik no longer felt the weight of his years, he no longer felt exhausted by the fatigues of the preceding day.
He is young again, and his blood is coursing through his veins. With head erect and firm footstep he walks down to the beach.
"Masa, my child, come to me; hasten to your father's arms!" he cries; so loudly that his voice drowns the noise of the rushing waves. But no one replies. Masa is not there.
A wild cry of terror resounds from his lips, he sinks down upon the shore exhausted, and stares out at the waves as though he would ask, "Have you seen my child; has she gone to you; has she sought a resting-place in your cold bosom?" Yet why should she do so? Masa is happy and loves her father, why does she then torment him thus? Masa must have gone to some of her neighbors. She has many friends; every woman and girl that Masa knows loves her on account of her happy disposition, her innocence, and her loveliness. She will have returned home long since. Djumeila cannot know that her master has gone out, or she would have called him.
"Masa is surely at home!"
The old man returns to his dwelling with the quick step of a youth. Djumeila is standing in the door-way, weeping and lamenting loudly
"Master, my child, my Masa, is gone! Allah be merciful, and take me from this earth, now that my Masa is no longer here!"
The sheik says not a word. He neither speaks nor weeps, but only beckons to the men who have been drawn to the spot by Djumeila's loud lamentations. When they have come near, he bends down close to them, as if to prevent even the wind from hearing him, and whispers in their ears: "My child is gone. Masa is not in the mosque. Masa is not on the beach, and is not with the neighbors!"
The men regarded him with dismay; and, supposing they must have misunderstood his words, ask each other, "What did the sheik say?"
He then shrieks, as if to make himself heard by the heavens and the earth, by the mountains and the sea: "My child is gone! Masa is not in her father's house, Masa is not at the mosque, and not on the beach! Where is my child?"
He then swoons away. Djumeila now rushes down the street, and her cries of anguish resound through all Praousta.
"Masa, the sheik's daughter, has disappeared! Where is Masa? Up, ye men and women, let us search for her. Let us search everywhere-- among the rocks and cliffs, in the hills and in the valleys. Masa, the sheik's daughter, is gone!"
From every house, men, women, and children, rush out and gaze at each other in sorrow and dismay. "Masa, our sheik's daughter, has vanished! let us search for her." And now they begin the search. People are to be seen running in every direction--to the rocks above, down to the shore. The air everywhere resounds with their loud cries:
"Masa, daughter of the sheik, where are you?"
Suddenly the music of the trumpet, cymbal and fife, and the roll of the drum, breaks in upon and mingles with these tumultuous cries. With warlike music the company of soldiers from the nearest city marches into Praousta, in accordance with the command given by the governor to his captain.
The men have been on the march all night, and now enter the village in the brlight of day, with their band playing.
The military music rings out so loud and clear that the cries of lamentation are no longer heard. The crowd stand still and gaze at the gaudily-attired men who are marching into Cavalla. The tschorbadji is standing with his distinguished guest, Cousrouf Pacha, in the court-yard of the palace. He has requested him to be present at the reception of the soldiers. The pacha's countenance and bearing are unchanged--all haughtiness and dignity--only his cheeks are paler and his glance more threatening than usual. As he now turns toward the gate of the court-yard, Mohammed Ali, the boulouk bashi, appears for the first time, attired in his handsome, glittering uniform, advancing with his company toward the palace. On the governor's left stands his son Osman, who has risen from his couch, overcoming for the moment his weakness and ill-health in order to participate in the triumph of witnessing Mohammed Ali lead his company, as boulouk bashi, for the first time.
Yes, there comes Mohammed Ali, marching at the head of his company, to the sound of the martial music. He holds his sword uplifted in his right hand, and salutes the governor as he approaches by lowering its point to the ground with a deferential glance. He recognizes his friend, and Osman joyously returns the greeting. Mohammed seems to him entirely changed at this moment, his figure taller and more powerful. His countenance is manly and joyous, his eyes sparkle with a mysterious fire, a smile plays about his lips, and his whole bearing is firm and commanding.
It is not Osman alone who sees this change. Cousrouf Pacha has also observed it. His countenance darkens. He compresses his lips as if to repress a curse that is struggling for utterance. Yet he retains his air of indifference and grave countenance, though his cheeks grow a shade paler, and his brow somewhat darker.
The band plays a lively air. Mohammed conducts his soldiers before the eyes of the governor and his guest through a series of movements and evolutions which he has long since practiced in secret. As they now advance toward him, "Right about, halt!" resounds Mohammed's word of command; and his soldiers stand there like a wall.
"Well done," said Cousrouf Pacha, with a gracious inclination of the head. He then added in a loud voice, in order that Mohammed should hear him: "You see, governor, street boys can watch soldiers exercising to some purpose. Mohammed has not stared at them on the street in vain."
He turns and leaves the court-yard, repairs to his private apartments, and calls the two eunuchs who had held the fruitless watch at the gate the previous night.
"When the soldiers have left the court-yard, twelve of their number will be placed at your disposal. Let them ltheir muskets and unsheath their swords. Then go to Praousta, to the sheik's house, and demand the restoration of my slave. Demand it in my name. If her father refuses, search the house and every place connected with it. Break open the doors if he refuses to unlock them. If you do not find her there, search the other houses of the village. I must have her! If you do not find her to-day, then find her to-morrow or the next day. I will allow you a week's time in which to get possession of this runaway slave. If you do not return her, your heads shall fall! Remember that! Stop, one thing more: observe and watch the new boulouk bashi. Select some of my servants to follow him day and night, and to observe every thing he does, yet without letting him become aware of it, for he is a shrewd lad and a daring one, too. Now, you can go."
While the company is still standing drawn up in the court-yard, the tschorbadji beckons Mohammed Ali to his side, and enters the palace with him.
"Mohammed, it is evident that you will become a brave and efficient soldier. You have courage; now learn to control your anger, to govern yourself, and then you will know how to command others. See, this purse filled with gold-pieces is the captain's salary for three months, which I pay in advance, as the young boulouk bashi will have to incur some necessary expenses, and will therefore be glad to accept a payment in advance."
Mohammed thanked the governor, and received the first salary of his new dignity with perfect composure, though a sudden sparkling in his eyes indicated how much he rejoiced over it.
Osman, however, can read his friend's countenance well. As the governor turns away, Osman throws his arms around Mohammed's neck and whispers in his ear: "You stand there radiant like a hero, and all the bliss of the world and of love, too, is reflected in your countenance. O Mohammed, father says you should learn to control yourself, and I am satisfied you can. When my friend is harassed with sorrow and care his countenance bears no evidence of it, but happiness is not to be repressed and driven back to the heart in this way. It illumines the face of man like the sun. But I warn you, Mohammed, it is sometimes dangerous to let one's countenance shine so. It easily awakens suspicion in the breast of an enemy, and he meditates revenge. Beware! Beware!
Mohammed regards his friend as though he did not understand him.
"What do you mean, Osman?"
"Nothing, nothing at all, Mohammed, except that it is sometimes dangerous to allow one's happiness to be observed. Bear this in mind, my friend, and draw a veil over your radiant countenance."
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