BUTHEITA.
On the green fields of Gheezeh, near the verge of the yellow desert, lies Mohammed Ali encamped with his forces. Five thousand brave soldiers, among them the Albanian corps, the best troops of the Turkish army, are under the command of the young sarechsme. In advance of him, Youssouf Bey is marching upon the Mamelukes with a corps of almost equal strength. According to the viceroy's instructions, Mohammed Ali is to wait and see if Youssouf Bey does not prove strong enough to vanquish the Mamelukes unaided; if this should prove to be the case, it would not be advisable to lead a splendid army corps into battle unnecessarily.
Mohammed Ali, however, well understood the secret meaning of the viceroy's instructions. Youssouf Bey is his lieutenant, his favorite, and his master is desirous that he alone shall reap the golden fruit of victory. If he is defeated, Mohammed is to march to Youssouf's assistance with all possible speed. The latter is a day's march in advance, and when his messengers reach Mohammed it will already be too late; the battle will have been lost and a new one will have to be fought with the elated victors. All this passes through Mohammed's mind as he sits there in the silence and solitude of the night. All are sleeping. The warriors lie scattered over the wide plain beside their horses, their hands on their swords. No tents have been pitched: what need of them, the night is warm; and on the morrow they are to be on the march again toward Damanhour?
For the sarechsme alone a tent had been pitched, which could be seen from far out on the desert on whose verge it stood. Any one bringing him a message would have found the white tent, surmounted by a dark-red flag, without any difficulty. As was customary, two sentinels stood in front of the general's tent. When all had gone to rest, Mohammed stepped out of his tent, and told the sentinels to lie down and go to sleep. What need of guards here in the midst of his faithful warriors? Let them all rest, for the morrow may be a day of great toil and fatigue. The sentinels thanked the sarechsme, and then lay down to sleep, their muskets at their side.
Mohammed returned to his tent, lay down on his mat, and, supporting his head on his hand was soon absorbed in thought. He lay there gazing out into the night, considering the viceroy's plans, and also considering whether it would be advisable to obey his instructions.
Youssouf Bey is to have all the glory of victory, but Mohammed is to share defeat with him. If Youssouf Bey is victorious, Mohammed must return to Cairo with his troops, and the former will have reaped all the honors of the campaign. But if Youssouf Bey is defeated, Mohammed will have to march to his assistance with all possible speed, and will, nevertheless, arrive too late, when the battle is already lost. Then a new battle will have to be fought, and the Mamelukes, elated with their success, will hurl themselves upon his forces, and probably rout them. Victory would then be merely possible at best, and shall he rely on this possibility? It is to be his first great battle, and dare he allow it to be a defeat?
But what can he do?
He considers this, and his present relations with the viceroy. Has the time come when he can lay hands to his task with ruder touch;will it do to substitute stern words for soft flattery? He will not be able to decide until after this battle--that is, if he is to take part in it at all.
While he lies there absorbed in thought, all has become still without. The men are asleep; no one moves, no eye is open. No one sees a dark shadow flitting across the desert toward the tents. Now it halts near that of the sarechsme. A smaller shadow separates from the larger one; it stoops low, and glides along slowly and cautiously.
All are wrapped in slumber. The shadow stops before the tent; and now something glitters, like two sparkling stars fallen from heaven.
Perhaps they are the eyes of some savage beast prowling near the camp in search of prey.
No one sees these eyes. They are not the eyes of an animal, but of a human being who now stands upright in front of Mohammed's tent.
Sleep has waved its black pinions over Mohammed, as he lies there lost in thought; his senses have become gradually confused, and he, too, now sleeps, dreaming of the viceroy, of the morrow, and of the Mameluke bey Bardissi, whom he would so gladly call his friend.
For a moment he opens his eyes; it seems to him that he hears a noise, a slight rustling against the canvas of the tent. Yet he sees nothing, and all is still. It is only a dream. He closes his eyes, the angel of sleep fans his brow, and his head sinks back upon the mat again.
It would have been well had the sentinels stood guard. They would not have allowed this black figure to spring into the tent with the bound of a tiger, and then glide like the noiseless serpent to the mat where Mohammed slept. They could have prevented this spectre from so quickly and noiselessly binding his feet and hands with thin ropes that he did not awake, and then suddenly and rapidly enveloping his head with a thick cloth, and adroitly tying it in a knot.
The sarechsme, now aroused, raises his head to hear the words: "Fear not, your life will be spared!" murmured in his ear.
And, while these words are being whispered, he feels the cloth about his head, and that he can utter no cry or word; he also becomes aware that his hands and feet are securely bound.
