The people had retired to rest, and the houses were dark. Suddenly a
bright light illumined the surrounding darkness, and cries for help
resounded through the air. The house that stood opposite Mohammed's
is enveloped in flames, and its occupants rush out yelling and
screaming for help.
The old woman and the boy ran over the way and knocked at the
window-shutters of the young boulouk bashi.
"Come out, come out, Mohammed Ali! Save yourself! Your house has
commenced to burn!"
All was still in the house, as though Mohammed knew the voice lied,
that there was no danger, and that he could sleep on quietly.
They knock at the shutters, they shake the door, but all remains
silent within; the light of the fire does not awake him, the cries
do not reach his ear. He is not there; he is assuredly not passing
the night in his house. It has certainly been set on fire in vain;
the poor people have sacrificed their property, and the spies have
failed to discover where Mohammed Ali has passed the night.
On the following morning howls and lamentations are heard in the
lower apartments of the harem; from time to time the sound of blows
can be distinguished, and then again howls and cries of pain.
No one dares inquire into the cause of these outcries, for in his
own apartments Cousrouf Pacha is master, and even the governor would
not venture to call him to account for his treatment of his own
servants.
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