第88章

Cousrouf Pacha has stood there, composedly gazing at this fearful, horrible burial. Now he steps to the side of the poor, bound man, and takes leave of him in cruel, mocking words.

Does he hear them? His widely-opened eyes stare out fixedly upon the waters. He is motionless, no quivering muscle indicates that he has understood the pacha's words of triumph and mockery. Cousrouf turns and beckons to the slaves.

"Leave him lying there! He will be found in the morning, for he will be looked for. Nothing has been done to him, and I have kept my word. Now let us go; the ship is ready to sail, is it not?""Yes, gracious master, all is in readiness," replied the eunuchs.

He turns and walks off toward Cavalla. An hour later, Cousrouf Pacha leaves the governor's house, and leaves it to return no more.

His harem had been conveyed to the ship before the morning dawned;and all his treasure and baggage had been packed, and taken on board the day before. All is in readiness to weigh the anchor and sail as soon as the pacha shall have come on board.

Cousrouf Pacha walks proudly down toward the harbor, at his side the governor, who insists on accompanying his honored guest to the shore. The servants in gold-embroidered liveries, and the slaves, follow his excellency.

And, gayly smiling, Cousrouf chats with the governor all the way down to the shore, grasps his hand in parting, and thanks him for his hospitality. He then enters the boat covered with costly carpets that is to convey him to the ship.

The tschorbadji stands on the shore gazing after him, vainly endeavoring to display a sorrowful, countenance, and repress all evidence of gladness that fills his heart at the thought that, after long years, the haughty pacha, who entered his house as master, has at last departed. Ah, it will be delightful to be able to walk in the park and garden, with his Osman, without the fear of meeting his proud guest.

Hastily the tschorbadji returns to Cavalla, to his son who is still reclining in the garden house, and relates that Cousrouf has departed, and that he has sent his dear Osman the kindest greetings, and the best wishes for his welfare.

Osman listens with an air of indifference and anxiety, and his father regards him with dismay.

"Osman, what is the matter, what is it that grieves you?""Father, I must say it. Something fearful has taken place this night!""What can have happened, Osman? Tranquillize yourself! You are trembling! What has occurred?""Father; I do not know as yet; I have been listening for the shot Mohammed was to fire. I have not yet heard it, and yet I feel that some misfortune has happened to him, and that something dreadful has taken place.""But what can have happened to Mohammed?""I cannot speak of it now, and I am a poor, unhappy being whose feet are too weak to bear him. I pray you go down to Praousta yourself.

Oh, go to the cliffs, father, go to the caves and openings in the rock! Take the servants with you! I conjure you, father, do not delay a moment!"He could speak no further, and the tschorbadji saw, with dismay, that his son's face was deathly pale.

"Be courageous, my Osman! It shall be as you say. I will call the servants. See, I am already going!"He hastily left the palace with his servants. All is still quiet in Praousta--the walk among the cliffs, and down to the shore. Then suddenly--"What is that on the beach? O Allah, the merciful! Is that not a dead body? Is it not Mohammed? Bound and gagged! He does not move!

Quick, cut the ropes, take the gag out of his mouth!"This is speedily done, but still Mohammed does not move.

"Is he dead? There are no wounds to be seen on his person! No, not dead, he is only insensible. Bring water, wet his temples, cool his forehead!"Allah be praised! He moves, he lives! Yes, he lives, and he bounds suddenly to his feet, and he gazes around with the expression not of a man, but of a tiger. He then utters a cry so fearful, so terrible a cry, that the tschorbadji's heart is filled with anxiety and compassion.

With outstretched arms, Mohammed walks down to the verge of the sea.

The servants rush after him, and endeavor to hold him back. He clinches his fists and strikes them, but they grasp him firmly, and at last succeed in overcoming him.

"Mohammed, compose yourself and be strong!" said the tschorbadji, clasping his arms about him. "Friend of my son, take pity on me, and remember that Osman dies if you die."He shakes his head, but cannot speak. He looks at the sea, the terrible sea! His eyes stare in horror at the place where Masa sank, then close, and he falls to the ground insensible. The servants now raise him in their arms, and carry him to the governor's house.

His countenance deathly pale, Osman stands at the gate awaiting them. He sees the sad procession approaching. He knows they are bringing his friend, and, hastening forward to meet them, he receives the motionless body, hot, glowing tears pouring from his eyes.

Awakened by the dew of his friend's falling tears, Mohammed opens his eyes and looks up. His lips part, and murmur softly, "Dead, Masa is dead!"--nothing more!

The whole history of his anguish lies in the words, "Dead, Masa is dead!"