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Above, on the Ear of Bucephalus, stands Mohammed Ali, leaning on his gun, his eyes fixed on the ship. He sighs profoundly as it now disappears without leaving the slightest trace behind, as though engulfed by the waters. "Gone," he murmured "gone! What was the name of the boy, the slave who so defiantly charged me to remember his name? I remember, it was Osman. Yes, Osman Bey, he said.
But to call them Osmanlis is to anticipate the next stage in their history. They are named after Osman, their first leader's son, and he after the third successor of the Prophet it was a good Moslem name, and he took it when he was converted to Islam and organised his pagan tent-dwellers into a settled Mohammedan State in the north-western hills of Anatolia, on the borders of Christendom.
The capitan pacha perhaps observed, by my manner and voice, that I also do not love Cousrouf Pacha, whom he hates; he warmly recommends me to him, and I am to go to him to serve him." "And will you enter his service?" asked Osman. "I will do so," replied Mohammed; "and I have sworn that I will serve the Viceroy of Egypt as my heart prompts."
"You have undergone a fearful baptism," murmured Osman, shuddering. "I read it in your pale countenance, my Mohammed a fearful baptism. You must, however, march on boldly in your career. Do you now understand why Osman was so anxious to accept the position of captain of the troops? Do you now understand why I took this step, and do you now comprehend my love and friendship, Mohammed?"
But I, my Mohammed, can see through this covering, and know your heart's most secret thoughts. Be still say nothing yet. First consider, and then give me a reply. Your Osman accepts the position, and it seems to me it would become his friend Mohammed to go with him where laurels, glory, and magnificence, are awaiting you.
They love each other, and what they have to say, no one else should hear. Mohammed stands up and dries his eyes; he wishes to be composed. Osman holds out his hand: "Your mother is dead, but she survives in your friends, and your mother and your friend now extend the hand to you. Mohammed, come with me to my house, for my house is yours, too.
Now, I know, Mohammed Ali, that no one can use a gun better than yourself, and it would give me great satisfaction to have you procure some of these birds for my son." "I will do it gladly, because it is for Osman," replied Mohammed. "I will bring them myself, within the hour. I beg you, gracious master, to tell your son that I am glad to be able to do something for him.
What is vulgar but to refuse the claim on acute and conclusive reasons? What is gentle, but to allow it, and give their heart and yours one holiday from the national caution? Without the rich heart, wealth is an ugly beggar. The king of Schiraz could not afford to be so bountiful as the poor Osman who dwelt at his gate.
While daylight lasted the men inside watched Osman Digna's seemingly innumerable soldiers dodging about, and when night fell the knowledge that they were there unseen, and might attack on all sides at any moment, was really calculated to try the nerves. For there is nothing more unpleasant than the idea of any one pouncing upon you suddenly in the dark.
He would be protected from wind and rain by the roof of the pavilion, and from all other sources of danger the two slaves that had been his faithful and devoted servants from his earliest youth would guard him. The two servants carried his cushions down into the garden, and Osman now lay there, wrapped in his silken coverlet; the two slaves were crouched down at his side.
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