Ah, Mohammed Ali, you fancied yourself the victor. I am he! This
your thirst for vengeance proclaims. It tells me that the wound in
your heart still burns. And who gave you this wound? I, Cousrouf
Pacha, and therefore do you seek vengeance on me. The wound still
bleeds, and I am triumphant! Yes, I am the victor. You should see
your own countenance at this moment; now, you are not vengeance and
hatred, but misery, personified. Let me in conclusion proclaim this:
Masa is dead, and I slew Masa. Slay me, her murderer. But dying, I
shall cry exultingly: 'Your wound still bleeds, and I am victor!
Masa is dead, here stands her slayer, slay him!'"
For a moment Mohammed was silent; a deathly pallor had overspread
his countenance, and his eyes gleamed fiercely. He grasped the
dagger in his girdle, drew it from its sheath, and raised it high in
his right hand.
Cousrouf gazed at him with a triumphant expression.
He wished for death, he longed for it after his fearful overthrow.
Perhaps Mohammed read this in his glance. His arm sank slowly to his
side, and he replaced the dagger in its sheath.
"Cousrouf Pacha, you desire death, but you shall not die. You shall
live to learn that the wound in my heart no longer bleeds; that it
is healed. If it were not so, by Allah, you, the murderer of Masa,
were already dead! Do you hear me? I pronounce the name I have not
spoken for many years the name Masa! You were her murderer, not her
judge! You were not her master, she was not your slave.
Pages:
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592