Mohammed, his head bowed down in profound reverence, withdraws to the door, walking backward. Cousrouf follows him with his eyes until the door has closed behind him, and then a smile glides over his countenance.
"This man is won over to my interests. He is right; he is transformed, body and soul, and he is mine. And truly such a friend is a valuable possession."
Mohammed descends with the slave to the court-yard. The latter hastily summons the equerry, and delivers his master's message. The beautiful horses, with their splendid trappings, are now led before Mohammed. The new sarechsme selects the handsomest and best; he wishes to show the viceroy that he can judge of the beauty and fire of a horse. Mohammed then retires to the rooms set apart for him in a wing of the palace. When left alone, his grave countenance relaxes, and a triumphant smile plays about his lips.
"The work is begun," murmurs he to himself. "The viceroy has himself called his enemy to his side. He thinks, with his favor and flattery, to make me forget what I have endured. He shall learn that Mohammed Ali never forgives. You are lost, Cousrouf, for you slumber, while I watch and will take advantage of your slumber. Beware, Cousrouf, beware! I will not be your murderer, you shall live, but I will humble you; you shall sink down in the dust before me! Let that be the revenge for Masa, my white dove, and for myself!"
CHAPTER IX
SITTA NEFYSSEH.
She was reposing in her garden-kiosk. She had ordered her female slaves to place themselves in the rear of some rose-bushes in the background, and make sweet harmony with their cymbals and clarinets. She wished to be left alone with her thoughts. She lay reclining at full length on her silver-embroidered silken cushions. The white silk dress, inworked with crimson roses, enfolded her closely, displaying the contour of her graceful form. The sunlight pierced the airy latticework of the kiosk, around which clustered roses and orange-blossoms, and shed a soft light over her charming countenance. The veil, which Sitta Nefysseh only wears when she goes into the streets or meets strangers in her house, is laid aside.
Beautiful is Sitta Nefysseh, more beautiful than a young girl, than the unblown rose, radiant with loveliness and dignity. "Queen of the Roses," thus is she called by all Cairo.
Who does not know her—who has not heard of her, of the Rose of Cairo, of the wife of the great Mourad Bey, the Mameluke chieftain? Even the Franks bowed humbly before her grace and dignity, and the scha-er sings and relates, on the street-corners, of the French general, Kleber, who loved Mourad's beautiful wife, and who often, in the stillness of the evening, haunted the vicinity of his palace, awaiting, perhaps, an opportunity to invade the harem in which the Rose of Cairo dwelt. And in his songs he also intimates that the dagger-stroke which lay the general low near the palace, was dealt at the instigation of the jealous bey.
Who does not know Sitta Nefysseh, the benefactress of the poor, the proud heroine who fought at her husband's side, who shared with Mourad the dangers of war, a heroine in battle, a gentle, modest woman in the harem?