They have almost
forgotten that only ten years have passed since Masa's death; and
when they gaze at the pale, earnest face of Mohammed Ali as he
passes through the streets of Cavalla in his business occupations,
they scarcely remember that he it is who was the cause of her death.
Does he remember it himself?
All things pass away, grief and joy alike. He has suffered much
since those days, but he has suffered in silence; few know that he
loved Masa, and these few have considerately refrained from touching
the wound that had once bled in his heart, lest it might not yet be
healed.
When found on the sea-shore that morning by the father of his friend
Osman, Mohammed Ali was taken up to the governor's house, where he
was tenderly cared for.
For many days he remained entirely unconscious of all that was going
on around him. He lay there coffined in his grief, as in living
death. They cooled his feverish brow, and poured strengthening
cordials between his lips. The magi cians and sorcerers, as well as
the physicians of Cavalla and the neighboring cities, were summoned
to his assistance by the tschorbadji and his son. But neither
amulets nor talismans, neither medicines nor herbs, could heal the
wounds which did not bleed, or cool the burning pain of his soul.
He lay there motionless, his eyes gazing fixedly at vacancy, and yet
they constantly saw the one fearful yet blissful picture, the Flower
of Praousta, the white dove, as she lay there in the early dawn, her
large eyes fixed on him tenderly ; and saw, too, the fearful, the
never-to-be-forgotten event.
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