As the dark body sank beneath the
waves, a shudder would course through his whole being, and a
scarcely-audible cry escape his lips. The ear of his listening
friend Osman would catch the word that escaped him, and this word
was "Revenge! revenge!"
With time all things pass away. There is a limit to the profoundest
pain, to the profoundest torpor. One day Mohammed raised his hand
and in a low voice called for water.
Consciousness had returned. He now felt the torment that glowed in
his soul. When a man has become conscious of his suffering, there is
a possibility of relief.
The water at least cooled his lips; and the tender, affectionate
words of his friend, and the tears of sympathy that fell upon his
countenance, at last cooled the fire that burned in his soul.
Happy is be who can impart his grief to others, whom Fate does not
compel to confine it within his own bosom, and let it gnaw at his
vitals. Happy is he who can pour out the burden of his sorrow and
suffering in the ear of a friend! That grief of which one can speak
is not mortal.
But there is another kind of grief and suffering more bitter than
that--it is deep, like the grave. Black like the night is the grief
that can find no utterance, that is chained to the heart by a sense
of duty.
Are such the grief and suffering that burden the breast of the pale
man who stands there on the shore gazing out at the sea? Are such
the grief and suffering that sometimes break in upon the solitude
and stillness of the night in low sobs from the lips of the man who,
but ten years ago, was so full of the courage, energy, and
joyousness of youth?
Osman had not nursed his friend alone.
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