"
In reply, Osman merely raised his pale, transparent hand and showed
it to Mohammed.
"Look at this pare, colorless hand. A poor, withered flower, good
for nothing except to press the hand of a friend, but a hand that
can never wield the sword or battle with the unruly waves as yours
can. No, Mohammed! I shall perhaps have health enough to live like
the flower or the blade of grass, but not to live like the eagle,
like the steed, like Mohammed Ali! But I will not complain. I am
contented; every one has his portion of happiness on earth; mine is,
to lie on the purple in the sunshine, and to hear my Mohammed tell
stories. But I entreat you to come very often," he continued, with a
sigh. "They have now curtailed my little earthly happiness; since
this Turk has come with his harem and his glittering suite, I am
very miserable. I know that my father feels it, too, and often
wishes his distinguished guest had taken his departure."
"Will he remain long, Osman?"
"That depends on whether his sun shines again in Stamboul," said
young Osman, shrugging his shoulders. "I must tell you, Mohammed,
there are peculiar circumstances connected with this gentleman. He
has fallen into disfavor, and is waiting here to see whether his sun
will shine again or not. He has been sent into exile, and it was
really intended that he should go to Egypt, where the Mamelukes of
whom you have just been relating such heroic stories, have again
risen in wild insurrection against the Turkish governor, and
Cousrouf Pacha is lying in wait here because he has good friends in
Stamboul who are working for him, and because he hopes to be able to
return to the beautiful capital where he can revel in luxury;
whereas, if he should go to Egypt, he would be compelled to draw the
sword and march out to bloody battle.
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