Mohammed's countenance was graver and paler than usual when he came
down from Bucephalus. But it seemed that his heart had there
received milder and softer impressions. He spoke to his wife in more
gentle and cordial tones; and instead of repairing, as was his
custom, to a coffee-house, where merchants assembled and exchanged
their views and opinions, smoked the chibouque together, and
discussed the news received from foreign countries, he remained at
home in the family circle. At his request, Osman had come to pass
the evening with them, for Mohammed well knew that this was the
young man's only happiness. These ten years did not benefit Osman's
health; he was still the withered stalk that bows its head, but is
not torn down by the wind, but only swayed to and fro by it at its
pleasure.
Yes, Osman was weak, and firm and constant in one thing only, in his
love for his friend.
With him this feeling took the place of all else; Mohammed was to
Osman what the latter was to his father--his only joy in life! And
for these two Osman sustained himself, bore his ill health and
suffering, and let the sunlight shine upon, and the storms of life
sweep over him.
Osman understood why Mohammed was so kind and genial to-day. He knew
that the day had its significance, and that the wound bled within
secretly and incessantly. In silence Mohammed is praying for
forgiveness, for having on this day permitted his thoughts to wander
back to the past, for having sunk down in sadness upon the spot on
the brow of the rock that had once witnessed his happiness; and he
desires to be mild and gentle to his family this evening.
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