"
He walks on hastily, without turning once to look back at his
beloved grotto, walks on into the world, to men whom he does not
love, and who do not love him.
He will learn to practise self-denial, and joyfully he now says to
himself: "I am already learning it, and now I can also enjoy."
At this moment he observed Tschorbadji Hassan, who had just turned a
corner of the street, advancing, followed by his servants.
When he perceived the boy, he stood still and greeted him with a
gracious smile. Mohammed, his arms folded on his breast, inclined
his head profoundly before the mighty man.
"See, Mohammed! The splendid shot! You come at the right moment,
Mohammed; I had already sent out a slave after you. Osman, my poor
sick son, craves a strange repast. He has seen pigeons whirling
through the air, and thinks, probably, because he knows they are not
easily to be had, that there can be nothing better in the world than
a roasted wild pigeon. Now, I know, Mohammed Ali, that no one can
use a gun better than yourself, and it would give me great
satisfaction to have you procure some of these birds for my son."
"I will do it gladly, because it is for Osman," replied Mohammed. "I
will bring them myself, within the hour. I beg you, gracious master,
to tell your son that I am glad to be able to do something for him.
I must be off after my gun."
Mohammed withdraws himself with a total absence of ceremony, not
waiting until Tschorbadji Hassan Bey dismisses him with a gracious
wave of the hand.
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