The pacha slowly turned to the governor. "Tell me, tschorbadji, who is this person? Your slave, is he not?""No," cried Osman, rising partially from his couch, and anticipating his father's reply. "No, your excellency, he is not our slave, but my friend, my beloved friend, Mohammed Ali.""Your friend! A great honor for such a lad, too great an honor, Ishould think," said Cousrouf Pacha, directing a fierce glance at Mohammed, who still stood erect beside him.
"Why should your excellency think so?" asked he in sharp, almost threatening tones. "Why is it too great an honor that the son of the tschorbadji calls me his friend? Has it not occurred that aristocratic gentlemen have elevated to an equality with themselves, and made friends even of, slaves, and purchased boys? I remember hearing the scha-er tell of a Circassian slave whom the grand-admiral, at Stamboul, purchased, and subsequently called his friend.
He was not ashamed of him, although the lad called Cousrouf was, after all, only a slave.""In the name of Allah, I pray you, be still!" cried the tschorbadji, looking anxiously at Mohammed.
"And why should he be still?" asked Cousrouf, in cold, cutting tones. "He is merely telling a story learned from the scha-er. You know, tschorbadji, it is customary to pay story-tellers, and give them a piaster.--Here, take your pay, you little scha-er."The pacha drew from his silken purse, filled with gold-pieces, a ducat, and threw it at the boy's feet.
Mohammed uttered a cry of rage, and took up the gold-piece as though he intended to throw it in the pacha's face. But Osman held his hand, and begged him in a low voice to be composed.
Mohammed struggled to compose himself. His face was pale, his lips trembled, and his eyes gleamed with wrath and hatred, as he glanced at the pacha; then his countenance became firm and composed. He beckoned to a slave who stood at a distance, to approach, and threw him the gold-piece. "The slave gives the slave his reward. Take it, thou slave!"A moment of silence and anxious suspense intervened, and then Mohammed's and the pacha's eyes met again in a fierce, piercing glance. The pacha then turned, and addressed the tschorbadji:
"If he were my servant," said he, "I should have him taken out to the court-yard for his insolence. If he there received, as he richly deserves, the bastinado, I think he would soon become humble and quiet. The viper bites no longer when its fangs are extracted.--Itell you, tschorbadji, if he were my servant, he should now receive the bastinado.""And if you were my servant," exclaimed Mohammed, haughtily, "Ishould treat you in precisely the same manner, sir. The bastinado is very painful, I am told, and you probably know it by personal experience. But this you should know, too, sir, that here on the peninsula of Contessa, slaves only are chastised, and slaves only receive the bastinado. I, however, have never been a slave, but always a free man; and what I am and shall be, I am, I am proud to say, through myself alone. I have not been bought and bargained for, and I sleep better in my dark little but than others who were once slaves, and who, having risen through the favor of their masters, now repose on silken couches.""Tschorbadji Hassan!" cried Cousrouf, pale with anger, and hardly capable of restraining himself from striking the bold youth in the face with his own fist--"Tschorbadji Hassan, you shall punish the insolence of this servant who dares to insult me, Cousrouf Pacha. Idemand of you punishment for this insolence.""I have broken no law, and there is no law that condemns me to punishment," said Mohammed, firmly and composedly. "Your excellency does me the honor to dispute with me, that is all. With us punishment is meted out according to the law only, and not at the pleasure of every grand gentleman."The tschorbadji stepped up to Cousrouf Pacha, and earnestly conjured him to show mercy to his son's friend, for his sake.
"Consider that Osman is my only child, and my only happiness.
Consider that he loves Mohammed as if he were a brother. The physicians say he would die if separated from Mohammed. Be merciful, and forgive the insolence provoked by your own overbearing words. Ientreat you to be merciful, and to come away with me."He took Cousrouf's arm in his own, and drew him away, almost forcibly entreating him, with all the anxiety of a father's heart, to forgive the uncultured youth, who knew nothing of becoming deportment and polished manners. He was an untamed lion, unfamiliar with the gentle ways of the domestic animals.
"And yet I wish I had this young lion in my power," said Cousrouf, gnashing his teeth with rage, as he followed the governor. "I should extract his teeth, and prove to the monster that he was not a lion, but only a miserable cat, to be trodden under my feet!"The tschorbadji drew him away more rapidly, that Mohammed might not hear him. He had looked back and perceived that Mohammed was standing still, gazing at them with a threatening eye, and, in reality with the bearing of a lion prepared for the deadly spring.
When they had disappeared, Osman rose from his cushions, stood up, threw his arms around his friend's neck, and kissed his quivering lips.
"I thank you, my hero, my king, my lion! You stood there like David before Goliath, and overthrew him in the dust. You made the insolent giant small, you hero. I thank you, my Mohammed!"
