"One thing more, dear sir. You are my friend, and, as I well know, mean well by me," said he, in low, hasty tones.
"Certainly, Mohammed Ali, and gladly would I prove to you my friendship."
"You can do so; tell no one of my purchases—no one," replied
Mohammed with a look of entreaty.
The merchant promised to be silent on the subject.
"Thank you, kind friend. I am happy; yet all depends on Allah's blessing."
He pressed the merchant's hand once more, and walked out, hastily beckoning to the servant, who had remained standing in the street, to follow him. He then walked on to the little hut of his mother Khadra.
He pushes open the door, and the servant follows him into the room. The bundle is laid on the floor, on the place where his mother died, and Mohammed generously and proudly, like a man of rank, hands the servant a gratuity, and bids him return. He walks off well pleased, and Mohammed is now left alone in his mother's hut.
An old woman is sitting just opposite the hut. She was there when he entered, smoking a short pipe, her arms crossed on her knees. She looked about carelessly, only now and then casting a glance at the house of the young boulouk bashi, who had locked himself in.
Mohammed had thought nothing of her presence. What cared he for the old woman there on the stone, smoking her pipe?
When, after a short time, he steps out of his hut, she stretches out her hand and begs for alms.