The white dove flew up the pathway, through the courtyard, and into
the palace, regardless of a number of her father's old friends who
were lying on the ground before the gate. She dare not stop to speak
to them, for the sheik could seek to learn on what errand his
daughter goes alone to the palace. If she should tell him, he would
command her to return to her father's harem, there to await in
patience the fate Allah should have in store for his children. No,
she cannot approach him, cannot brave his questioning; she would
then be compelled to disobey him, for her father's life must and
shall be preserved.
The tschorbadji stood in the lower hall. His heart was troubled, and
his countenance sorrowful. He should not have permitted Mohammed Ali
to go so far. How terrible it would be if this execution should
really take place here in his courtyard, if the heads of the best
men of Praousta should really fall to the ground! No, he should not
have permitted the stern, pitiless young man to pledge his honor for
the fulfullment of what he had undertaken. He had already asked his
son Osman to seek his friend and entreat him to desist from his
stern purpose. Osman was now pleading with his friend in soft,
persuasive tones.
"Will he succeed?" This is now the question that agitates the
tschorbadji. He had sworn by all that was holy that Mohammed should
have his will; and a Moslem cannot break his oath; honor forbids it.
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