But at its conclusion the allies, Bardissi and Mohammed Ali,
enter Damietta in triumph. No quarter is given. They massacre all
who fall into their hands; every house is sacked and then burned. On
the square in front of Fort Lesbe, a column of soldiers, Cousrouf
Pacha at its head, sitting proudly erect on his steed, still opposes
them. He has been bravely fighting all along, fighting for life, for
victory, for glory, but he has fought in vain; he prefers, however,
to die at the head of his followers, than to flee, or fall into the
hands of Mohammed Ali.
The enemy approaches. A ball strikes Cousrouf's horse, and it sinks
to the ground. With difficulty he succeeds in extricating himself
from his fallen steed.
"Upon them, my brave soldiers!" he cries, drawing his ataghan. "Let
us fight our way through to the fort. There we shall be secure."
"You shall never reach it!" exclaims Bardissi, his uplifted sword
descending upon Cousrouf's head.
Suddenly his arm is grasped, and held as in a vise.
"Give him to me, Bardissi!" cries Mohammed.
"And you wish to save Cousrouf's life, Mohammed?"
"Only give him to me, Bardissi, I pray you!"
Bardissi recognized in the tone in which these few words were
uttered, that Mohammed's motive in making his request was not love
for Cousrouf.
"You are my prisoner," cried Mohammed, tearing the sword from
Cousrouf's hand, and hurling it far from him.
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