"
"Yes," replied Mohammed, in low tones, "yes, it is forgotten. All
sorrow and suffering are over. You are right. All things pass away,
and time heals all wounds-mine, too. They are healed. Cousrouf has
forgotten the boy's defiance, as you say, and you observe that what
I have suffered at his hands is also forgotten. But I shall not
leave this place-I may not."
"You may and you shall," said Osman, and there was a more earnest
and manly ring in his voice than Mohammed had ever before heard. "Do
you not suppose, my boy, my beloved, my second self--do you not
suppose that I read your soul, and know what is smouldering and
lamenting in your inmost heart? Mohammed, I believe you do not wish
to understand yourself. You have enveloped your heart in a veil
which you do not wish to rend asunder, even before your own vision.
But I, my Mohammed, can see through this covering, and know your
heart's most secret thoughts. Be still--say nothing yet. First
consider, and then give me a reply. Your Osman accepts the position,
and it seems to me it would become his friend Mohammed to go with
him where laurels, glory, and magnificence, are awaiting you. Look
at me, my friend; look at the poor, frail body for which you are so
necessary a support, and let us be silent about all the rest for the
present. Yet do not forget that Osman loves you, and is ready to
make any sacrifice for you.
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