Perhaps they are the eyes of some savage beast prowling near the
camp in search of prey.
No one sees these eyes. They are not the eyes of an animal, but of a
human being who now stands upright in front of Mohammed's tent.
Sleep has waved its black pinions over Mohammed, as he lies there
lost in thought; his senses have become gradually confused, and he,
too, now sleeps, dreaming of the viceroy, of the morrow, and of the
Mameluke bey Bardissi, whom he would so gladly call his friend.
For a moment he opens his eyes; it seems to him that he hears a
noise, a slight rustling against the canvas of the tent. Yet he sees
nothing, and all is still. It is only a dream. He closes his eyes,
the angel of sleep fans his brow, and his head sinks back upon the
mat again.
It would have been well had the sentinels stood guard. They would
not have allowed this black figure to spring into the tent with the
bound of a tiger, and then glide like the noiseless serpent to the
mat where Mohammed slept. They could have prevented this spectre
from so quickly and noiselessly binding his feet and hands with thin
ropes that he did not awake, and then suddenly and rapidly
enveloping his head with a thick cloth, and adroitly tying it in a
knot.
The sarechsme, now aroused, raises his head to hear the words: "Fear
not, your life will be spared!" murmured in his ear.
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