He then shrieks, as if to make himself heard by the heavens and the earth, by the mountains and the sea: "My child is gone! Masa is not in her father's house, Masa is not at the mosque, and not on the beach! Where is my child?"
He then swoons away. Djumeila now rushes down the street, and her cries of anguish resound through all Praousta.
"Masa, the sheik's daughter, has disappeared! Where is Masa? Up, ye men and women, let us search for her. Let us search everywhere— among the rocks and cliffs, in the hills and in the valleys. Masa, the sheik's daughter, is gone!"
From every house, men, women, and children, rush out and gaze at each other in sorrow and dismay. "Masa, our sheik's daughter, has vanished! let us search for her." And now they begin the search. People are to be seen running in every direction—to the rocks above, down to the shore. The air everywhere resounds with their loud cries:
"Masa, daughter of the sheik, where are you?"
Suddenly the music of the trumpet, cymbal and fife, and the roll of the drum, breaks in upon and mingles with these tumultuous cries. With warlike music the company of soldiers from the nearest city marches into Praousta, in accordance with the command given by the governor to his captain.
The men have been on the march all night, and now enter the village in the broad light of day, with their band playing.
The military music rings out so loud and clear that the cries of lamentation are no longer heard. The crowd stand still and gaze at the gaudily-attired men who are marching into Cavalla. The tschorbadji is standing with his distinguished guest, Cousrouf Pacha, in the court-yard of the palace. He has requested him to be present at the reception of the soldiers. The pacha's countenance and bearing are unchanged—all haughtiness and dignity—only his cheeks are paler and his glance more threatening than usual. As he now turns toward the gate of the court-yard, Mohammed Ali, the boulouk bashi, appears for the first time, attired in his handsome, glittering uniform, advancing with his company toward the palace. On the governor's left stands his son Osman, who has risen from his couch, overcoming for the moment his weakness and ill-health in order to participate in the triumph of witnessing Mohammed Ali lead his company, as boulouk bashi, for the first time.
Yes, there comes Mohammed Ali, marching at the head of his company, to the sound of the martial music. He holds his sword uplifted in his right hand, and salutes the governor as he approaches by lowering its point to the ground with a deferential glance. He recognizes his friend, and Osman joyously returns the greeting. Mohammed seems to him entirely changed at this moment, his figure taller and more powerful. His countenance is manly and joyous, his eyes sparkle with a mysterious fire, a smile plays about his lips, and his whole bearing is firm and commanding.
It is not Osman alone who sees this change. Cousrouf Pacha has also observed it. His countenance darkens. He compresses his lips as if to repress a curse that is struggling for utterance. Yet he retains his air of indifference and grave countenance, though his cheeks grow a shade paler, and his brow somewhat darker.