After a few moments Mohammed, however, turned, and came back to the
merchant, who was standing on the threshold looking after him.
"One thing more, dear sir. You are my friend, and, as I well know,
mean well by me," said he, in low, hasty tones.
"Certainly, Mohammed Ali, and gladly would I prove to you my
friendship."
"You can do so; tell no one of my purchases--no one," replied
Mohammed with a look of entreaty.
The merchant promised to be silent on the subject.
"Thank you, kind friend. I am happy; yet all depends on Allah's
blessing."
He pressed the merchant's hand once more, and walked out, hastily
beckoning to the servant, who had remained standing in the street,
to follow him. He then walked on to the little hut of his mother
Khadra.
He pushes open the door, and the servant follows him into the room.
The bundle is laid on the floor, on the place where his mother died,
and Mohammed generously and proudly, like a man of rank, hands the
servant a gratuity, and bids him return. He walks off well pleased,
and Mohammed is now left alone in his mother's hut.
An old woman is sitting just opposite the hut. She was there when he
entered, smoking a short pipe, her arms crossed on her knees. She
looked about carelessly, only now and then casting a glance at the
house of the young boulouk bashi, who had locked himself in.
Mohammed had thought nothing of her presence.
Pages:
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281