But she stands still, and her black eyes burn like flames as her
gaze follows him, and her purple lips murmur, in low tones:
"Beautiful is he, as the young day; beautiful as the rosy dawn of
heaven! Oh, that it shone over me! Oh, that this sun were mine!"
He heeded her not; he did not hear the sweet whispering of her lips.
CHAPTER IX
A SOUL IN THE AGONIES OF DEATH.
THE narratives of the scha-er continued to resound in Mohammed's
soul, and occupied him day and night. His existence seemed useless
and empty, and every thing that surrounded him colorless and
desolate. What cared he now for cliffs and caves, for the surging
sea, for the blue sky? How little it seemed to him to be the best
rifleman and oarsman of the island, to be renowned down in Praousta
as the best fisherman!
What does he care for all this? Who hears of what takes place in
Cavalla, or in the miserable village of Praousta? Nobody comes here
except the merchants who sometimes land to purchase the celebrated
tobacco, and the sultan's collectors who come twice a year for the
taxes.
Who knows of these insignificant places? Who observes Mohammed Ali
when he strikes the bird in its flight, or steers his boat over the
waves in the wildest storm? All is tame and paltry! With his mind's
eye he sees before him the cities the scha-er had told of. Over
there in Egypt, stretched out on the yellow shore of the green sea,
lies a great and magnificent city with towers, minarets, and
temples, a city such as he has never seen, the, city of Alexandria.
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