All was still; nothing could be heard but the murmur of the sea, and
the rustling of the wind.
The merchant, who had at first stood in silence beside the two, now
walked noiselessly away.
They love each other, and what they have to say, no one else should
hear.
Mohammed stands up and dries his eyes; he wishes to be composed.
Osman holds out his hand:
"Your mother is dead, but she survives in your friends, and your
mother and your friend now extend the hand to you. Mohammed, come
with me to my house, for my house is yours, too. I will not have you
remain alone; you must come with me."
Mohammed shook his head gravely. "It cannot be--I will not become a
slave!"
"Come, out of love for me. Not as my slave, but as my friend. Oh, I
am so lonely, and you are the only one who loves, and can console,
poor, sickly Osman."
"I will come to you!" exclaimed Mohammed, drawing his friend to his
bosom. "Even as a slave would I come, for I should be my friend's
slave. I will come to you."
CHAPTER X
COUSROUF PACHA.
THE days had passed quietly and monotonously for Mohammed since the
death of his mother.
To climb among the rocks with his gun in stormy weather, to cross
over in his boat to Imbra, after the fishermen's nets and fish, and
to tame the young Arabian steeds of the tschorbadji that had as yet
known no bridle, these were now Mohammed's chief pursuits and
pleasures, and in them he engaged with passionate ardor when at
leisure, that is, when not with his friend Osman Bey.
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