"
"As if he could assist her," he murmured to himself. "As if all
assistance were not now out of the question."
"Be composed, Mohammed," said Osman, entreatingly, as he threw his
arms around his friend's neck. "Do not complain, do not accuse. Be
firm, and prove that you have a strong and noble heart."
He cried out in piercing tones, as the lion cries when it sees the
hyena rending his young, as the eagle cries when the storm-wind
sweeps away its nest with its young. Then in wild emotion he threw
his arms around his friend's neck, and groaned heavily. Within, in
the saloon, nothing could be heard of the loud talking in, the
adjoining room. The pacha still held the veil high uplifted and
gazed at Masa.
"What is your name?" asked he, in low, soft tones. She cast down her
eyes before his passionate glances, and a deep blush suffused itself
over her features, making her still, more beautiful.
"My name is Masa," replied the girl, in a low voice. "But I pray
you, sir, let my veil fall over my face again. I am afraid!"
"Let me gaze on you one short moment longer," whispered he,
ardently. "You are beautiful, Masa, as are the stars of heaven, as
are the blush-roses in my garden. No, you are still more beautiful,
for they soon fade, but you are in the rosy dawn of your loveliness,
and your youth is still radiant in the morning-dew of innocence.
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