"Yes, that is what I intended to say, my friend, and this one thing you must still learn: to use the pen and write down your thoughts on paper."
"I cannot", cried Mohammed, impatiently; "my hands are too rough. The oar and the gun have made my fingers so stiff that I cannot use the pen."
"Then let it be so. I will torment you about it no longer." said Osman, with a sigh. "You are my head and I am your hand. You think for me, and I shall write for you. So shall it be throughout our entire lives, for together we two must remain, and nothing can separate us. Is it not so, my friend? Say it, and say it often, that nothing can separate us. For you must know that if fate should tear you from me it would kill me, and that you cannot intend: therefore, we shall ever remain together, shall we not?"
"We shall ever remain together," said Mohammed. "That is Osman, consider well what you are saying, for you are nearly eighteen years old."
"As you are," responded Osman, smiling.
"Only with this difference, that your father will give you with your eighteenth year, a beautiful aristocratic lady to wife, and establish a harem for you; while Mohammed Ali will never have either a sweetheart or a harem, but will always remain alone and unwedded."
"Who knows?" replied Osman, laughing. "Those who assure us they will never love, says the poet, are the one's that fall in love soonest. One is easily surprised by the enemy who is not feared, and against whose snares the heart is not on its guard . . . This will be your fate, Mohammed. Your heart is not on its guard, and does not fear the enemy, love . . . But my poor heart has no cause to fear and be on its guard; let me repeat it, Mohammed; look at me. Can the poor, pale youth, with his wan countenance, his sunken breast, and his weak breath can he think of marrying? Or do you suppose I would care to become a subject of jest in the harem to the female slaves and servants, who would have to wait on the sick man? True, the tschorbadji, my father, has sometimes spoken of giving me an establishment of my own with my eighteenth year. I remained silent, for fortunately it is at present impossible. My establishment was to have been above in the upper saloons, and fortunately Cousrouf Pacha with his harem is still in possession of that part of our house. May he long remain there! I do not wish it on his account, or because I love him, but solely because my father must now delay the execution of this plan. May Cousrouf Pacha, therefore, long remain!"
"I do not wish it," said Mohammed, gloomily; "he is a hard, proud man, better in his own estimation than anybody here in Cavalla, better even than the tschorbadji. I never saw a prouder man. And what right has he to be so? Has he not fallen into disgrace with the sultan? Did he not come here because he was banished from Stamboul? And do you know why he was banished? I will tell you: because—so have strangers who have come here reported, because he sought the death of his benefactor and master, the grand admiral, Hussein Pacha, in order that he might put himself in his place. Isn't this horrible, Osman? The grand-admiral had bought him as a slave, and then, because he loved him; made him free, and a wealthy man; he had him instructed, and persuaded the sultan to appoint him bey and pasha; and in return for all this, Cousrouf Pacha attempted to poison his faithful master and benefactor, and calumniated him to the grand sultan. Isn't this horrible?"
"It certainly would be if it were true," said Osman; "yet I do not believe it. Much is told and said of the great and mighty, and they are often calumniated and accused of evil deeds which they have not committed. If it were so, do you not suppose the grand-admiral, Hussein Pacha, the mighty man, and the grand-sultan, would have punished him as he deserved? No, my father says differently, and has received from Stamboul other and more reliable information. Cousrouf Pasha has fallen into disgrace—that is a fixed fact—and the sultan has sent him into exile. Yet he did so against the wish of the Grand-Admiral Hussein. Do you know why? Consrouf has fallen into disgrace? Because he refused to go to Egypt as pacha, declaring that was equivalent to sending him into an open grave, as he should never return home from that land of rebels and Mamelukes. The sultan wished to send him to Egypt because he suspected him of having a secret amorous intrigue with one of the sultanas. The sultan had been told that Cousrouf Pacha was in the habit of being secretly conducted to the sultana's chamber at night by a female slave. As the sultan stealthily approached and opened the door of the chamber, he heard a rustling and whispering, but was so dark in the room that he could see nothing. He called slaves with torches to his assistance. They searched the room, but found nothing. The sultana stood on the balcony looking out into the starlit night. She met her husband with a smiling countenance, saying the night was so beautiful, she had gone out to gaze at the stars. The sultan, it is said, gnashed his teeth with rage, but kept silence, as it would have been unworthy of his dignity to threaten where he could not also punish. On the following morning he sent Cousrouf Pacha into exile to this place, my father tells me. But it is thought the sultan's anger will soon expend itself, and that his friend the grand-admiral, Hussein Pacha, will succeed in restoring his favorite to honor. Cousrouf Pacha, my father says, is already heartily tired of his tedious sojourn here, and has written to Hussein Pacha that he is now ready to go to Egypt as pacha."
"Ready to revel in the glories of the world! Truly this great Cousrouf Pacha is very condescending, "cried Mohammed, in derisive tones. "He acts as though he were conferring a favor in accepting that for which another would give his heart's blood."