“There, Simba,” said Isa, triumphantly, “what do you think now of slaves and true believers? Do you not think it right for us to take and capture those who waylay us, and make them slaves for their perfidy and savagery?”
“I think the same as before,” answered Simba. “I do not know the Küran so well as Abdullah, it is true, but I know that the same God who gave you sense and feeling gave the savages of Urori some sense and feeling as well; but I should like to know what my young master Selim’s thoughts are upon these subjects.”
“To tell you the simple truth would be to tell you that I never thought much of these things,” answered Selim, in a mild tone. “My father has slaves, and my relations own a great number. They are all well looked after, and I have never heard that they were much astonished at their condition. I have seen slaves punished and killed; but they had done wrong, and they deserved their punishment. Neither my father nor my relations ever gave me to suppose that by keeping slaves they were committing wrong, and you surely cannot expect me, who am but a boy and the son of my father, to say anything against my elders. Whatever Amer bin Osman does is right; at least, so I have heard men say, and shall I, his son, judge him?”
“Bravely spoken,” said the impetuous Khamis, “Bravely said, my brother Selim; but, instead of speaking to Simba as thou hast done, thou shouldst have taken thy kurbash (whip) to him, and taught the dog to watch the doorstep of his master, and not be teaching the son of Amer.”
“You are over hasty, Khamis,” replied Selim, in a deprecating tone. “Simba is good and true to me and to my father’s household. My father loves him, and I love him, black though he be, as if he were my brother. Simba and Moto are worth their weight in the yellow metal which our women love to adorn their necks with; yet, did it depend on my voice, a thousand times their weight of gold would not purchase them.”
Both Simba and Moto were so affected at this that they both fell on their knees, and crawled up to their young master to embrace his feet, thus testifying the great love they bore him; but Selim would not permit this, and said:
“Nay, my good Simba, and you, Moto, rise. I think you men, not slaves, and you need not kiss my feet to show me how much you love me. You are my friends, and I shall ever esteem you as such.”
“My good young master,” said Simba, in a voice broken with emotion, “we are your servants, and we are proud of it. Are we not, Moto?”
“Indeed, we are,” said Moto.
“What Arab tribe can boast a lad of your years with so much beauty and heart? Your eyes, young master, are blacker than the richest, ripest singwe (a species of wild plume) of Urundi, and as large as those of the sportive kalulu (young antelope); and when they are covered with your eyelids, we have often compared them while you were asleep, and Moto and I watched you, to the lotus which hides its beauty at eve from the fell touch of night. And your flesh, though not white like the bloodless pale children of the white races, is like the warmer colour of ivory, and beautiful and clear as the polished ivory ornaments of my people in Urundi: your limbs, clean and shapely, are firm and hard as ivory tusks. You are like a young palm-tree in beauty and strength. He is a happy man who calls you son, and your mother laughs for joy in her sleep when she dreams of you. Your slaves are proud to call you master.”