He lay reclining on a mat in front of young Osman's couch, and in
excited words, with glowing eyes, he told the heroic stories of the
proudest people of Egypt.
Osman's large eyes were fixed on his face in an earnest gaze, and a
slight color tinged his pale cheeks as he listened.
"Beautiful, is it not?" asked Mohammed, as he finished his
narrative. "Would not you, too, like to go to the land where, as the
scha-er says, slaves become heroes, and heroes princes?'
Osman shook his head gently.
"I do not know, Mohammed. I should be contented, I think, to remain
here, reclining on my cushions, the sun above me, and you at my
side."
"But what I have related is beautiful, is it not?"
"I do not know," replied Osman, for the second time. "I regarded you
while you were speaking, and I rejoiced in you. It seems to me,
Mohammed, as though you were the better part of myself. I feel as
you feel, and think as you think, and rejoice when I hear you utter
in fresh and glowing words that which my lips can utter with
timidity and hesitation only. If I were healthy, Mohammed, I should
be, I think, as you are. Therefore, whenever I look at you, it seems
to me I see myself as I might be, but am not."
"You will be yourself, again," said Mohammed, tenderly. "When you
have become strong again, no one will be able to compete with you in
manly exercises, and like all the other boys I shall have to bow my
head humbly before you, and shall have to pay you the tribute as
they pay it to me.
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