To-day all Cairo is in a state of joyous excitement. The days of want and care have passed--who now remembers the terrors of yesterday? Who still remembers the days when the Frank ruled here, when the terrible general made the people bow their heads beneath the yoke? Yes, on this same square of the Esbekieh, have they lain in the dust before the mighty general who stood before them a giant, though small in stature. Who still thinks of the misery and disgrace of those days? Forgotten! all forgotten! Two years are a long period for the remembrance of a people; and two years have passed since Bonaparte departed, and more than a year has elapsed since the last of the Franks withdrew from Egypt.
"All hail the new viceroy sent us by our master in Stamboul! he will make us happy, and relieve us of the unending struggles of the Mameluke beys! Long live Cousrouf Pacha, our new viceroy!"
These cries rend the air as the surging crowds make their way toward Boulak, from which place Cousrouf Pacha is to make his grand entrance into the holy city. All the authorities have assembled there to participate in the celebration; there are the ulemas in their long caftans, and the sheiks in their green robes, the crescent embroidered on their turbans in token of their dignity; there are also the generals of the Turkish and English regiments, the latter only remaining in Cairo to take part in the festivities of the viceroy's entrance. And now the new ruler approaches in his splendor. The Nile, bras it is at Boulak, is nevertheless covered with boats, in which the viceroy is approaching with his numerous and glittering suite. He stands on the deck of a large boat, surrounded by a group of distinguished Turks and Englishmen; all the consuls of the friendly powers are with him, and this seems to the shouting populace a guarantee of returning peace.
The boat is brought alongside the bridge of boats that connects Boulak with the opposite shore. As Cousrouf Pacha now steps out upon the bridge covered with costly carpets and strewed with flowers, thousands of voices from both shores hail the viceroy as their deliverer with shouts of joy. The pacha bows a kindly greeting in every direction, and then casts a glance toward the horizon, where, in the purple distance, the pyramids stand out, sharply defined against the sky. He bows his head still more profoundly, and remembers that he is now the successor of the great Pharaohs who erected these monuments to themselves.
"I, too, will erect such a monument. After thousands of years the world shall still speak of me--of the Viceroy, perhaps of the King, of Egypt."
Such are his thoughts as be walks across the bridge to the carriage of state in which he is to make his entrance. The ulemas receive him. "Long live the ambassador of the prophet! Long live the blessed of Allah!" resound from the lips of the thousands assembled upon the shore and in the streets of the city.
How radiant is Cousrouf Pacha's countenance! How little the viceroy of to-day resembles the exiled pacha of the past, during his weary sojourn in Cavalla, with nothing to enliven him but his little struggle with the boy Mohammed and his harem! A land is now at his feet. Onward the procession moves through the crowds that throng the streets; they have now turned into the Muskj Street--the beautiful street, the pride of the inhabitants, with its old-fashioned, lofty houses. Onward the procession moves toward the citadel. There, in the beautiful palace, will the viceroy be enthroned. "Long live our new ruler! Long live our viceroy!" These are the cries that greet him throughout his entire march to the citadel; and these cries still rend the air long after Cousrouf Pacha has entered the palace, at whose gates he had been received by the grand dignitaries of the land. He greeted them all in brief but kindly terms, and then retired to the private apartments of his palace.
He now reclines on his cushions, thinking of his past and of his future. A glad smile lights up his countenance. The way was long and weary, but its obstacles have now been overcome. Once he was a slave, but he had sworn to struggle for a great aim. He has kept his oath. Here he is the first, the ruler. Who knows but he may yet completely cast off the burden of dependence, and become absolutely free? Every thing rests on the acquisition of good and faithful friends and servants, and he will acquire such. It is so easy for the great to acquire friends! Is not the capitan pacha his friend? Does he not owe all that he is to him? He has elevated him from the dust, and made him commander of the army with which he has come over from Turkey. Yes, he is a true and devoted friend, and he will easily find others. His power will become great--great as all Egypt. He rises, calls one of the Nubian slaves, and bids him show him the way to the walls of the citadel.
The slave opens a secret door that leads into a narrow passage and upon the outer wall of the citadel. Motioning to the slave to remain in the passage, Cousrouf steps out, and then stands still, astonished at the splendid spectacle that lies before him. Spread out at his feet lies the holy Mazr, with all its minarets and towers. Farther on lies a whole city of cupolas--these are the graves of the caliphs; they rear their heads proudly aloft in the sunlight, congratulating the new ruler on his magnificence; but also reminding him of the perishable nature of all earthly glory--the saying of a certain wise man "Thou first and mightiest of mortals, be thankful that thou art alive!"
"I thank thee, Allah, that I am alive, and I bow down in humility before thee!" murmurs Cousrouf, reverently. He then again looks out with delight upon the landscape that lies before him. There, in a wide curve, winds the river Nile like a silver ribbon, innumerable decorated boats and barks dancing upon its surface. Here all is life and animation, beyond the Nile reigns a solemn stillness; for a certain distance from the river bank stand stately palm-trees, and then suddenly, sharply defined beside the green fields, begins the yellow sand. That is the desert--that is the mysterious theatre of so many adventures throughout the ages, the receptacle of so much hidden wealth, the great burying-ground of the unknown dead. There, on the horizon, where the yellow sand and the blue sky meet, stand the pyramids of Gheezeh, and farther on, in the purple distance, the pyramids of Sakkara.
"A world lies at my feet, and I am the ruler of this world. I have attained my aim," says he to himself. "All is fulfilled; but one thing is left to wish for. O Allah, grant me still many years in which to enjoy this magnificence!"
Once more he glances around at the beautiful landscape before him, and then, conducted by the slave, returns to his private apartments. He lies on his cushions, listening to the shouts of the delighted multitude without.
Suddenly the curtain that covers the doorway is noiselessly withdrawn, and a slave announces that a messenger from the capitan pacha, accompanied by a bim bashi, stands in the antechamber, awaiting his pleasure.
"What is the messenger's name?" asks Cousrouf, wearily.
"Hassan Aga, master, bim bashi of the capitan pacha."
"And his favorite," murmurs Cousrouf to himself. "Let Hassan Aga enter."
At the slave's call the messenger enters, bows his head to the ground, and hands his master's letter to the viceroy.
"Do you know its contents?" asks Cousrouf, slowly opening the letter.
"Yes, highness. It is a farewell letter from my master, who leaves to-morrow for Stamboul."
For an instant a smile glides over Cousrouf's countenance; but then it assumes a sad expression. "The capitan pacha is about to depart-- to leave me."
"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 rtead 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!"
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