The
sheik and the ulemas must be rescued, cost what it might. With this
firm resolve they hastened up the stairway, entered the outer court-
yard of the palace, and loudly demanded to be conducted to the
governor.
But their clamors were in vain. At the gate of the palace stood the
eight soldiers of the body-guard, with drawn swords, prepared to
defend the entrance.
Enraged, the fishermen pressed forward with uplifted knives,
threatening destruction to all who should attempt to bar their
passage.
"Where is the governor? We must speak with him; we must have mercy."
"No, no mercy," cried a loud, sonorous voice; and, as they turned in
the direction from which the voice came, they saw a fearful object
standing in the middle of the court-yard--the block covered with
black cloth. Near by, proudly erect, his lips firmly compressed, as
if to repress words of imprecation or wrath that struggled for
utterance, stood Mohammed Ali, like an angry spirit, ready to judge
and to punish. Thus he stood there, and, behind, a slave holding in
his hands the glittering axe. "Behold this, ye men of Praousta, and
bow down in the dust; pay what the tschorbadji has demanded of you,
or the heads of my prisoners shall fall as I have sworn."
Horror, rage, and anger, were combined in the single cry that
resounded from the breasts of all.
"Mercy, mercy! you cruel boy! Do you intend to prevent the men of
Praousta from returning tranquilly to their homes? do you wish to
make slaves of them?"
"I have authority to act as I am acting, and I will grant no mercy
to the men of Praousta.
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