It
alarms her to walk between the long rows of women who bow low as she
passes. But behind the door are the private apartments, and there
she will be alone. This thought cheers her as she walks on
unconscious that a number of female slaves are following her to the
private apartments. Those who fill such exalted stations as that of
the wife of the Viceroy of Egypt, know no solitude, not even in
their private apartments. The slaves now gather around her, fall on
their knees, and swear to serve her faithfully, and her first maid
asks if her gracious mistress will now retire to the toilet-chamber
to change her dress. She dares not refuse, and allows herself to be
conducted thither, where the most splendid garments lie in readiness
for her. She makes no selection, but permits her women to dress her
as they think proper. This is at last concluded, and one of them now
announces that she may enter the private apartments, where his
highness the viceroy is to receive her.
Her heart throbs wildly, like the heart of a young girl, as she
enters the apartment. At the entrance she stands still, timidly.
Alas! he is not yet there--the room is empty. The viceroy makes no
haste to greet his wife.
The door now opens, and Mohammed Ali enters.
Ah! she would hardly have recognized him; to her he seems quite
changed. His countenance is so radiant, his bearing so proud, so
splendid his gold-embroidered uniform, so gracious the smile with
which he advances to meet her, so gracious the manner in which he
extends his hand and smiles on her.
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