At the entrance he stands still and looks around. A wondrous change
has come over him. He smiles, and his countenance is still more
radiant than when he spoke with Hassan of his sons. His eyes sparkle
like those of a youth who beholds again the countenance of his
beloved.
The saloon is curiously furnished. Nothing splendid, nothing
beautiful is to be seen. Simple mats cover the floor, such mats,
woven of long straw by the fellahs, as adorn the harems of the
poorer class of people in Cairo. There are no divans, but only low
cushions covered with plain woolen cloth, no costly hangings, no
mirrors on the walls; they are hung with gray linen, as though they
were the sides of a gigantic tent, and in the middle of this immense
space there really stands a tent--a large one made of white cloth,
patched with colored rags of every description, such a tent as the
Bedouin chiefs of the desert dwell in.
Any one entering this immense space, after passing through the
glittering apartments of the harem, would have been strangely and
mysteriously affected by its appearance.
But Mohammed is not so affected. He steps in noiselessly, as if
fearing to disturb the repose of some one.
Is any one reposing there?
Not yet; but the time, it is to be hoped, will soon come when this
tent shall no longer be unoccupied as now.
Mohammed steps forward, draws back the curtain, and enters the first
apartment of the tent.
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