"I have thought of something," said the other. "Come, I will tell you. Let us get everything ready."
Dark clouds covered the heavens, shutting out the light of the moon and stars, and night sank down over the earth earlier than usual.
The people had retired to rest, and the houses were dark. Suddenly a bright light illumined the surrounding darkness, and cries for help resounded through the air. The house that stood opposite Mohammed's is enveloped in flames, and its occupants rush out yelling and screaming for help.
The old woman and the boy ran over the way and knocked at the window-shutters of the young boulouk bashi.
"Come out, come out, Mohammed Ali! Save yourself! Your house has commenced to burn!"
All was still in the house, as though Mohammed knew the voice lied, that there was no danger, and that he could sleep on quietly.
They knock at the shutters, they shake the door, but all remains silent within; the light of the fire does not awake him, the cries do not reach his ear. He is not there; he is assuredly not passing the night in his house. It has certainly been set on fire in vain; the poor people have sacrificed their property, and the spies have failed to discover where Mohammed Ali has passed the night.
On the following morning howls and lamentations are heard in the lower apartments of the harem; from time to time the sound of blows can be distinguished, and then again howls and cries of pain.
No one dares inquire into the cause of these outcries, for in his own apartments Cousrouf Pacha is master, and even the governor would not venture to call him to account for his treatment of his own servants.
Osman lay on his cushions in the little portion of his garden that had alone been reserved for the use of himself and father, since Cousrouf Pacha had been occupying the remainder with his harem. He heard the howls and cries of pain that came from the harem, and bowed his head in sadness.