"You will be yourself, again," said Mohammed, tenderly. "When you have become strong again, no one will be able to compete with you in manly exercises, and like all the other boys I shall have to bow my head humbly before you, and shall have to pay you the tribute as they pay it to me."
In reply, Osman merely raised his pale, transparent hand and showed it to Mohammed.
"Look at this pare, colorless hand. A poor, withered flower, good for nothing except to press the hand of a friend, but a hand that can never wield the sword or battle with the unruly waves as yours can. No, Mohammed! I shall perhaps have health enough to live like the flower or the blade of grass, but not to live like the eagle, like the steed, like Mohammed Ali! But I will not complain. I am contented; every one has his portion of happiness on earth; mine is, to lie on the purple in the sunshine, and to hear my Mohammed tell stories. But I entreat you to come very often," he continued, with a sigh. "They have now curtailed my little earthly happiness; since this Turk has come with his harem and his glittering suite, I am very miserable. I know that my father feels it, too, and often wishes his distinguished guest had taken his departure."
"Will he remain long, Osman?"
"That depends on whether his sun shines again in Stamboul," said young Osman, shrugging his shoulders. "I must tell you, Mohammed, there are peculiar circumstances connected with this gentleman. He has fallen into disfavor, and is waiting here to see whether his sun will shine again or not. He has been sent into exile, and it was really intended that he should go to Egypt, where the Mamelukes of whom you have just been relating such heroic stories, have again risen in wild insurrection against the Turkish governor, and Cousrouf Pacha is lying in wait here because he has good friends in Stamboul who are working for him, and because he hopes to be able to return to the beautiful capital where he can revel in luxury; whereas, if he should go to Egypt, he would be compelled to draw the sword and march out to bloody battle."
"I hate him—the coward!" exclaimed Mohammed. "I despise men who prefer eating sugar with women in the harem, to mounting their steeds and taking the field against the enemy, sword in hand."
"That will never be your preference," said Osman, regarding him tenderly.
"No, never," protested the boy. "Women are good playthings for hours of leisure, when a man has nothing better to do. But to revel, like Cousrouf, in luxury—to hide himself while he might be attempting deeds of heroism—to be dallying with women instead of mowing off the heads of his enemies, that I cannot comprehend. It is repulsive to me to think of a man's surrounding himself with women, and taking delight in their caresses and soft words."
"It suits Cousrouf very well!" said Osman, smiling. "He spends the greater part of his time in the harem. Singing, music, and rejoicing, are the order of the day there. Black female slaves fan him with fans made of peacock-feathers; others, on their knees, fill his chibouque, while he reclines on his cushions, smoking and dreamily gazing at the beautifully-attired female slaves who dance before him."
"And he," said Mohammed, "he, the vain man, imagines that they dance and remain in his harem out of love for him!