I do not sleep on soft cushions; a plain mat
is my bed, but on this mat my mother reposed, and on it she died. To
me it is sacred. I pray to my mother each night, Osman, and I greet
her each morning when I drink out of the wooden cup so often touched
by her lips. I should have to give up all this, and come here to
repose in splendid apartments, sleep on silken mattresses, and allow
myself to be waited on by slaves who do not belong to me. No, Osman,
do not demand this; let me come to you each day, of my own free-will
and love."
He extended his hand to his friend, who, as usual, lay reclining on
his couch, and Osman pressed it warmly in his own.
"You are a proud boy," said he, in low tones, "and though your
refusal gives me pain, I can still understand that in your sense you
are right, Mohammed. In short, you do not wish to be grateful to
anybody."
"And yet I am grateful to you, Osman," said Mohammed, regarding him
tenderly; "all my heart is full of gratitude and love for you; but
how much do I owe to you! Is it not for your sake that your father,
the proud tschorbadji, is so kind and friendly to me? Does he not
allow me, the lowly born, to sit with him at his table, and treat me
as his equal?"
"Because he well knows that you would otherwise never come to me
again," said Osman, with a sad smile. "He is careful not to hurt or
offend you in any way, for, as you know, my father loves me very
dearly, and it would give him pain to deprive me of the only friend
I possess.
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