They
have impressed themselves deeply into his heart with their fearful
glances. The haughty pacha had never reproached himself for killing
the slave Masa--that was his right; he acted according to law when
he punished the runaway slave by death--but it was cruel to compel
the man who loved her to witness her death. Cousrouf had felt this
at the time, and that was why these eyes had penetrated his heart
like daggers' points. But that was long ago, and these eyes are now
very different. They no longer glitter with curses; they now sparkle
with animation, energy, and courage, only.
"You come from Cavalla," says he, after a pause, "and your name is
Mohammed Ali? It seems to me that once, when I sojourned for a time
at Cavalla, I also knew a Mohammed Ali, a daring young lad, the
friend of Osman, with whose father I resided; I had appointed Osman
bim bashi of the soldiers he was to bring over to me, and I also
permitted him to select young Mohammed Ali as his boulouk bashi. Yet
Osman has not come, nor do you appear to be the Mohammed Ali I then
knew."
"Pardon me, highness," said Mohammed Ali, with a slight smile, for
he well understood the secret meaning of this question, "pardon me,
highness, I am this Mohammed, and yet another. The first was a bold,
insolent lad, who dared to defy your authority and refused to bow
his head in humility before your highness.
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