"Tell me, Mohammed, why do you not come to see me oftener? You know
how glad I always am to see you."
"Master, he did not visit you, because it does not become the poor
to intrude upon the rich and noble," replied Mohammed, his eyes
fixed with an anxious expression on Osman's pale face.
"Rich and noble!" repeated Osman, with a sigh. "You are rich,
Mohammed, for you are healthy. You are noble, Mohammed; for the
inhabitants of the sea and of the air must obey you. You have power,
and that is nobility."
The tschorbadji was displeased with these humble words of his son,
and his brow became clouded.
"I think you should be content with your riches and nobility, my
son," said he. "Come, hand me the pigeons, Mohammed."
He took the beautifully feathered birds from Mohammed's hand, looked
at them, and let their feathers play in the sun light. "Yes, they
are still warm; so the world goes. An hour since they disported
themselves in life's sunshine. The child of man comes, sends a few
shot through their bodies, and their glory is at an end. But, I
thank you, Mohammed, for having so quickly complied with our wish.
Here is your reward." He took two gold-pieces from his purse and
handed them to the boy in his outstretched hand.
Mohammed did not take them. He drew back at the words of the
governor, a deep color suffusing itself over his cheeks.
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