"I swear by my beard, by Allah, and by the prophet, if Osman expresses a wish, I will grant it certainly and surely. I repeat my triple oath, and call Allah to witness it. What he requests I will grant!"
"You have heard this oath, father, and Allah has heard it, too," said Osman, solemnly rising from his couch and turning the gaze of his large luminous eyes full on the pacha's countenance. "I have a wish, a great, a cherished wish."
"And can I grant it?"
"You can if you will."
"Certainly I will, for I am now bound by the triple oath. It is sacred to every Moslem, and sacred to me at all times. So speak, Osman, and I will grant what you request."
Osman rose from his seat, and the pale, weak youth stood there with so solemn an expression that the tschorbadji and the pacha involuntarily arose from their cushions.
"Cousrouf Pacha, hear my wish: I require, wish, and expect of you, that you hold sacred, that is, that you neither personally, nor through any one else, insult or injure the person of my friend Mohammed Ali, the only being I love beside my father."
The pacha regarded him with a long, gloomy, threatening look, and made no reply. Osman read in his face the struggle that was raging in his soul, and continued in gentle tones:
"Cousrouf Pacha, look at me. I am a frail reed, liable to be thrown to the ground by every breath of wind. I am a poor blade of grass upon the sea-shore, liable to be swept to destruction by each wave. Oh, grant me this request, in order that, while the sun still shines for me, I may enjoy the last hours of my existence in peace!"
"Yes, do so, mighty pacha," cried the tschorbadji, bursting into tears, and falling upon his knees with folded hands. "Cousrouf Pacha, see me here at your feet, and grant my son's request in order that he may live. I know that he loves Mohammed Ali, that he loves him even more than his father. He fears that his friend is in danger through you!"