The
quarter in which they reside is completely surrounded by soldiers.
They do not notice it, however; these grand gentlemen are taking
their ease in their palaces.
Bardissi is in his harem. He has consoled himself for Sitta
Nefysseh's cruelty and coldness; the beautiful Georgian and
Circassian slaves that throng his harem well know how to make him
forget the past with their songs and dances, their sweet words and
soft looks.
There he lies on his cushions, gazing dreamily at their dancing.
Suddenly a shot is heard, then a second follows, and a ball strikes
the wall of his house.
Bardissi bounds from his cushions, and the dance is at an end. He
rushes out into the court-yard to learn the cause of the firing. The
street and square are filled with soldiers, and on the opposite side
of the square, in front of the arsenal, whole batteries are in
position, as though a battle were to be fought.
"What does this mean? Who has led these troops against us? Are those
not Albanians and Armenians?"
A loud, a fearful cry resounds from Bardissi's lips: "Those are
Mohammed Ali's troops, and it is he who is leading them against us.
It is he who has planned my destruction. Then let us also prepare
for battle ourselves. They shall see that Bardissi is not so easily
trapped. Let us defend ourselves in this house as in a fortress.
Close all the doors and gates.
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