"Cousrouf Pacha, hear my wish: I require, wish, and expect of you,
that you hold sacred, that is, that you neither personally, nor
through any one else, insult or injure the person of my friend
Mohammed Ali, the only being I love beside my father."
The pacha regarded him with a long, gloomy, threatening look, and
made no reply. Osman read in his face the struggle that was raging
in his soul, and continued in gentle tones:
"Cousrouf Pacha, look at me. I am a frail reed, liable to be thrown
to the ground by every breath of wind. I am a poor blade of grass
upon the sea-shore, liable to be swept to destruction by each wave.
Oh, grant me this request, in order that, while the sun still shines
for me, I may enjoy the last hours of my existence in peace!"
"Yes, do so, mighty pacha," cried the tschorbadji, bursting into
tears, and falling upon his knees with folded hands. "Cousrouf
Pacha, see me here at your feet, and grant my son's request in order
that he may live. I know that he loves Mohammed Ali, that he loves
him even more than his father. He fears that his friend is in danger
through you!"
"And why do you fear this, Osman?" asked the pacha, slowly and
angrily.
"I fear it," replied Osman, softly, "because I well know that
Mohammed has often offended you. He is still so young and impetuous,
and the consciousness of his poverty and obscure descent burdens his
soul and irritates him, in the presence of your greatness and
power.
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