"Why? Well, my Osman, you surely cannot think of—"
"I understand you," said Osman, nodding his head; "you mean I cannot think of accepting any such position as it would beseem a man of my rank to hold. But I feel myself in better health; it seems as though the thought of such a possibility had given me new strength and energy. Who knows, perhaps, the luxurious, effeminate life I have always led is the great cause of my ill-health and weakness; a new or adventurous life may do me good. It is often said that the greater part of disease is mere imagination. If one shakes this off, he shakes his disease off with it. Therefore, I have decided to try this remedy myself. After full consideration, I have concluded to accept the position of captain of our troops."
"You are really in earnest!" exclaimed Mohammed, springing to his feet in alarm. "You will actually take this position of captain, go to the war, and leave as!"
"Leave us? " repeated Osman. "No, we two, of course, remain together, my friend. You go with me. You are selected as my lieutenant. You know Cousrouf Pacha added words of praise and acknowledgment for you, too."
Mohammed's eye glittered for a moment, but he looked down quickly. "Yes, he did this, and his conduct is very noble and generous, for he well knows that I do not love him, and that I was once his enemy."
"Once," repeated Osman, closely regarding his friend. "But that was a long while ago, and we have done with the dreams of our youth long since, have we not, Mohammed? What then was, has passed away. He no longer thinks of the childlike defiance you displayed toward him, the great pacha; and the sorrow and suffering he caused you are long since forgotten."
"Yes," replied Mohammed, in low tones, "yes, it is forgotten. All sorrow and suffering are over. You are right. All things pass away, and time heals all wounds-mine, too. They are healed. Cousrouf has forgotten the boy's defiance, as you say, and you observe that what I have suffered at his hands is also forgotten. But I shall not leave this place-I may not."
"You may and you shall," said Osman, and there was a more earnest and manly ring in his voice than Mohammed had ever before heard. "Do you not suppose, my boy, my beloved, my second self—do you not suppose that I read your soul, and know what is smouldering and lamenting in your inmost heart? Mohammed, I believe you do not wish to understand yourself. You have enveloped your heart in a veil which you do not wish to rend asunder, even before your own vision. But I, my Mohammed, can see through this covering, and know your heart's most secret thoughts. Be still—say nothing yet. First consider, and then give me a reply. Your Osman accepts the position, and it seems to me it would become his friend Mohammed to go with him where laurels, glory, and magnificence, are awaiting you. Look at me, my friend; look at the poor, frail body for which you are so necessary a support, and let us be silent about all the rest for the present. Yet do not forget that Osman loves you, and is ready to make any sacrifice for you. Say nothing now, Mohammed, but reflect on what I have said. And if you love me, and think you owe me your love, and wish to prove your friendship for me, accept the proffered position, and go out with me into the world. Go, and reflect about it, Mohammed, and, when you have decided, come to me with your answer."
Mohammed left the garden as his friend had asked him, the words "you must go with me where laurels, glory, and magnificence await you," resounding in his heart. He hears them everywhere, at home with his wife, in the midst of his family. And then the voice of reason would in its turn make itself heard: "You should not abandon the woman who rescued you from death, and has given you comfort, wealth, and position. You should not abandon the children, whom you are called on to instruct and protect."
"No, I ought not to go," he repeated to himself, as he sat down beside Ada, and called his children to him. "No, I must remain here."