A woman had stood at his
side; the beautiful Ada, of whom Osman some times whispered to his
friend that she loved him.
Upon hearing of his grief and illness, Ada, conscious of her love
only, and casting aside all the fetters that bound her, had left her
husband's house and came to the palace of her uncle, with whom she
was a great favorite. With glowing words she told him that she would
never return to the house of her husband, who had long tormented her
with his fierce jealousy, because he well knew that his wife did not
love him, but loved the friend of his relative, young Mohammed Ali.
In the strength and ardor of her love, she had not cared to deny
that this was so, and firmly declared that she would be his alone;
and therefore had she come up to the palace to nurse and wait on him
she loved, in his illness and distress.
The tschorbadji did not oppose her wishes, and the poor, delicate
youth Osman was well pleased to have Ada's assistance in nursing his
friend.
She had been at his bedside constantly, and listened eagerly to the
words that fell from his lips in the delirium of his fever. Ada
would lie on her knees beside him, absorbed in those mysterious
outpourings of the human heart; listening to his descriptions of the
object of his great love, of his Masa, of her fate, and hear his
oaths of vengeance.
After the days of fever, and of the outpourings of anguish, came the
days of exhaustion and of returning consciousness.
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