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At Imbro you shall live, Cousrouf, and I shall take care that you sometimes hear of me there, and learn what has become of the boy who lay stretched out on the shore, his heart torn with anguish, while you caused that which he held dearest on earth to be sunk in the cold grave of the waves.
Heretofore, the sunrise was but the signal for me to go in pursuit of game, or to prepare to cross over to Imbro, to look after the fishermen's nets, set out the day before. But to-day Allah proclaims to me why it is that the sunlight is so glorious, that the eagle soars so proudly aloft, that the waves surge so grandly.
This is our last meeting, yet you shall often hear of me, and this I tell you in advance: Cousrouf Pacha, where you stood in your power and magnificence, there shall Mohammed Ali stand. He will, however, be more powerful than you were, and no one shall deal with him as he has dealt with you. No one shall depose him from his place, be assured of this, and remember it in your solitude at Imbro.
Bear my greeting to Cavalla, to the yellow shore, and to Masa's deep, blue grave. And now I have nothing more to say to you. I shall send up the bim bashi who is to conduct you to Alexandria, and accompany you on the ship to your home at Imbro. Farewell!" He turns and hastily leaves the room, without looking again at Cousrouf, who stands there motionless and deathly pale.
He returns to consciousness, is led down to the court-yard, mounted on his ass, and conducted by the bim bashi and the slaves to Alexandria. From there he is transported in the vessel, that lies in readiness, across the sea to Imbro, to the citadel, from whose windows he can see Cavalla, the water, and the place where he buried Masa beneath the cold, blue waves.
"Behold the hero of Imbro, the daring conqueror of the sea! Welcome my hero, welcome!" He stood still, listening to these tones, a happy smile over- spreading his countenance. How beautiful it is to be thus welcomed! To be sure, as yet it is only a friendly greeting, and half in mockery, but this greeting shall one day resound from the throats of whole nations, and not in mockery.
He stands there, motionless, pale as a corpse, staring at Mohammed. He seems to be still listening to the words he has heard, to the fearful announcement of his fall and disgrace. "To Imbro you go," said Mohammed Ali, after a pause. "Do you remember Imbro?" No word comes from Cousrouf's pale lips; he slowly shakes his head.
Now, a single, mighty cry resounds from above, from the place where the mother is kneeling. It seems to find its echo here below on the shore where the men and boys are standing. It is a cry of joy, of ecstasy. And all hands are raised and pointed across the water to the spot where the island-rock, Imbro, must lie.
"Imbro is a little island, opposite Cavalla, and for the selection of this place you are indebted to me, Cousrouf. Do you know why I selected it? From the windows of your prison you can see Cavalla, the bay, and the Ear of Bucephalus. From there you can see the sea and the coast, can see the place where on that night the poor boy lay on the shore, also the place where Masa sank beneath the waves.
"I have begun it and I'll carry it out," the proud boy had replied to them. "You have ridiculed me, and think yourselves better oarsmen than I, and now you shall see that I alone shall cross over to Imbro, while you cowardly return when the storm begins to rage."
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