But he turned his head neither to the right nor to
the left, that no one might observe how wondrously beautiful
everything seemed to him, and that he had never before seen any
thing so magnificent.
There, under the beautiful tent with the golden tassels, and the
gold-glittering star--there, on a couch, reclined a pale, thin boy,
and at his side, on a chair richly embroidered, sat Tschorbadji
Hassan.
As Mohammed now advanced with elastic step, his head erect, the two
looked at him in admiration.
"How splendid he looks!" murmured the pale boy. "That is health,
father, and life. He is just my age, and only look at me!"
The tschorbadji suppressed a sigh, and smiled gently as he looked at
his son. "You are ill, my Osman. Allah will grant you speedy
recovery, and then you will become strong and healthy like Mohammed
Ali.--Well!" he cried to the boy who had stood still at some
distance with his birds in his hand--"well, I see you have kept your
word, and brought my son the wild-pigeons."
"I have, and am glad that I was able to do so." replied Mohammed, as
he now came nearer in obedience to the bey's request, and greeted
the pale boy with a joyous smile.
"Give me your hand, Mohammed," said the young boy, who had partially
risen from his cushions, and was supporting himself on his elbow.
Timidly, Mohammed took the boy's pale, thin hand in his own.
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