For a long time no word is spoken. At
last Cousrouf raises his eyes and endeavors to look his enemy in the
face; but he cannot. So terrible, so threatening is his expression,
that Cousrouf shudders. It seems to him at this moment that an
avenging angel stands before him; and the viceroy, usually so
haughty and overbearing, feels humiliated and helpless.
"Cousrouf Pacha," said Mohammed, after a long pause, "look at me! I
have long worn a mask; you placed it on my countenance, and I
allowed you to do so, and awaited my time. Cousrouf Pacha, raise
your eyes and look at me! I no longer wear a mask!"
Cousrouf looked up at him, and now his glance was firm, and his
countenance composed.
" I see, Mohammed Ali, sarechsme by my grace, I see that you now
wear a mask. He who now stands before me is hardly a human being,
but the mere embodiment of hatred--envy and hatred personified."
"You mistake, Cousrouf," replied Mohammed in haughty tones. "Not
envy and hatred, but vengeance personified. Cousrouf, I have awaited
this hour for thirteen years. Am I not to enjoy it now? Do you think
I would relinquish it for all the wealth and power of the world?"
"I know you would not," replied Cousrouf, quietly. "Yet you would
give all these thirteen years of falsehood and trickery, of cunning
flattery; yes, you would give the miserable triumph of this hour for
a single smile of the slave to whom I awarded merited punishment.
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