"Make your report!" he exclaims, sternly, as he raises his hand threateningly, and then lets it fall again to his side. "Tell me, dogs; where is the runaway slave?"
They threw themselves on their knees before him, and crossed their arms on their breasts.
"O lord and master, we do not know."
"You do not know, you dogs? Then you are determined to be chastised?" cries the pacha. "You have no trace of her whatever?"
"No, O master; not as yet."
"Yet you are aware that I have only given you seven days' time? If you do not restore her to me within that time, your heads fall! You have not forgotten that?"
"No, master, we have not forgotten it."
"You are wise," said the pacha, quietly. "What about Mohammed Ali; have you caused his movements to be closely watched?"
"Yes, master, we have done so."
"Then speak," commanded the pacha, falling back on his cushions with closed eyes, slowly smoking his chibouque, and opening his lips from time to time to allow a whiff of smoke to curl slowly upward. "Your report, dogs!"