Mohammed well knows where the swarm of soldiers that had stood before his house have now gone, led by their bim bashis.
They rush, their numbers increasing on the way, to the house where Bardissi resides. With loud cries they demand to speak with Bardissi himself.
He appears, and asks why they have come. The vestibule of the palace is already crowded with soldiers, and new masses are continually pouring into the court-yard. In reply to Bardissi's question, they all cry loudly: "We have come for our pay! We want money! We are hungry! We want our pay, our money!"
"Go back to your quarters, and remain there, quietly!" cries
Bardissi. "In two days you shall have your pay. Go!"
"We will wait no longer!" cries a bim bashi, and they all cry after him: "We want our money! We will not leave here until we are paid!"
They press farther and farther into the house, more and more fiercely demanding their pay. Suddenly, a loud, firm voice resounds from the court-yard: "What does this mean, soldiers? What are you doing here? How dare you force your way into the palace of the chief?"
A smile lights up Bardissi's countenance. This is his friend
Mohammed Ali. He will extricate him from his embarrassing position.
Yes, it is he, the sarechsme, at whose approach the men respectfully fall back and make room. He enters the palace and hastens to Bardissi.
"Oh, forgive me! I knew not that my soldiers had dared to come here. They also came to me and demanded their pay; I had none to give them, yet I had no idea they would go so far as to annoy you personally."
Bardissi makes no reply. He only looks at his friend, and grasps his hand warmly.