"I suppose they make him think so. They say a woman's lips make a lie sweet, and that her face always wears a mask! And yet" he continued, looking dreamily toward the harem, "I must tell you, Mohammed, I sometimes think I should be happy, too, and less tormented with ennui, if one of these houris of paradise sat at my side, chastely veiled, regarding me lovingly and I could look through the white veil at the smile on her lips. Ah, Mohammed, we, who are not made to become heroes, feel an irresistible longing after love, and the sweet delight of being loved. You, of course, cannot understand this."
"No, I cannot," cried Mohammed, with a contemptuous smile. "I shall never bow my head beneath the yoke of female slaves, with their beautiful almond-shaped eyes and purple lips. I shall consider all women as playthings, with the exception of my mother," said he, bowing his head with profound reverence. "Allah forgive me for speaking ill of women, for our mothers are women, Osman! Forgive me my pride and folly. I speak only of the light-footed slaves, with the deceiving smile and the false eyes."
"And who knows,' said Osman, smiling, "but that my Mohammed, who speaks of these fetters so derisively, may not some day be vanquished? Do not set your face against it, Mohammed. Remember that even the heart of the great prophet glowed with love, and that it was he who peopled paradise with houris, and promised it, as the highest bliss, that beautiful women should there kneel down before the blessed spirits, gently stroke their feet, and look at them lovingly with their lustrous, gazelle-like eyes. Therefore, do not say, Mohammed, that your heart shall never be accessible to love! Yours is a true, manly heart, and a manly heart must love. You see, Mohammed, I am hardly a man, and shall probably never become one, and therefore I do not believe that love will ever hold me in its golden net; I shall love nothing but my best, my only friend."
"And will you tell me his name, Osman? " asked Mohammed, bending down closely to him. Passionately, almost threateningly, he repeated: "Will you tell me the name of this, your beloved, your only friend?"
Osman, smiled, took from a cushion an oval mirror, framed in mother- of-pearl, with a golden handle, and held it before Mohammed. "Look at yourself, and you will know his name."
Looking, not at the mirror, but earnestly into his friend's eyes,
Mohammed stooped down and kissed Osman's lips.
"Listen, Osman, to what I say! I am almost ashamed to confess it, and yet it is true, next to my mother I love you best on earth, and I believe I could sacrifice my life for you."
"And I mine for you," said Osman, gently.
"Let us swear to be true friends forever," continued Mohammed.
"Here is my hand! Eternal friendship! If you need me, Osman, call me, and, were I ever so distant, I would come to you. When in want, or when cast down by sorrow and suffering, I will complain to no one but you. What my lips will confess to no one else, they shall confess to Osman. Shall it be so? Friendship for life?"