“I should have known and trusted,” said Hassan, pacing up and down his cell in agitation; “but I doubted thee, Ahmed, and am unworthy of thy friendship.”
After giving himself up awhile to these thoughts, he reverted to the letter. “Beaten!” he said, while he crushed the paper in his gyved hand. “I, Hassan, the Child of the Pyramid, whose lance has emptied the saddles of warriors; I, the betrothed of Amina, to be exposed in the meidàn and beaten like a thief or a slave—by Allah! rather will I die ten thousand deaths.” He cast his eye scornfully down on the rusty manacles that fettered his wrists. “Fools,” said he, “to think that the hands of Hassan could be held by brittle toys like these! The intention of Ahmed in sending me the file was friendly, and it may yet be needed, but not now. The slaves might examine these chains before leading me out, and my escape be thus rendered impossible.”
So saying, he hid the file in the folds of a linen girdle that supported his serwal (or drawers), and having carefully reperused Ahmed’s letter so as to fix it firmly in his memory, he tore it piecemeal and buried it in the dust in a corner of his cell, so that in case he should fall in his attempted escape there might not be found anything to compromise his friend.
Having made these preparations and recited his evening prayer, he lay down and slept soundly till he was awakened by the drawing of the bolts of the prison-door, and the entrance of half-a-dozen armed men appointed to conduct him to the place of punishment.
In obedience to their orders, before leaving the prison they examined the manacles, which Hassan held up to their inspection with an air of good-humoured confidence, which, together with his noble and distinguished mien, impressed the rough fellows in his favour.
They were strangers to him personally, but they thought it a pity that so handsome a youth should be subjected to a degrading punishment for speaking a few words in the garden beneath the window of a Khanum whose life he had saved only a few days before. However, they knew Osman Bey’s character, and dared not disobey his orders, so they marched their prisoner to the appointed spot, where a man stood ready to tie his hands to the post mentioned in Ahmed’s letter.
While performing this office, his back being turned to the Bey, a single wink of the eye sufficed to show to Hassan that he was a friend, and that the cord was either half-cut or rotten. Osman Bey sat on a cushioned carpet smoking his chibouq, some of the officers of his household standing on either side, while behind him Hassan recognised many friendly faces of Delì Pasha’s attendants, on which sympathy and indignation were legibly written: beyond these again he noticed the palm-grove, where his horse and liberty awaited him if he could escape from stab or bullet on the way. The attempt seemed desperate; yet, although Hassan had resolved to risk it, none could read any agitation or emotion in that calm, proud eye, which, after surveying the surrounding crowd, rested its scornful glance on the Vice-Governor.
“Osman Bey,” said Hassan in a loud, firm voice that was heard by all present, “I warn you to desist from this unjust punishment. I have appealed to Delì Pasha; it is he alone who should judge his own khaznadâr.”
“Dog!” replied Osman Bey, “dost thou teach me my duties and my powers? Am I not Governor till Delì Pasha arrives; and shall I not punish a scoundrel who dares to invade his harem? I will have thy back beaten till thou canst not speak, and I will leave thy feet for Delì Pasha to beat till thou canst not stand. Slaves,” he continued, addressing two men armed with sticks who had silently taken their places on each side of the prisoner, “strike! and if you do not lay it soundly on, by my head you shall taste the stick yourselves.”
Even as he ceased speaking the fall of a heavy blow on Hassan’s back sounded over the meidàn, and an involuntary groan burst from many of his former comrades in the Pasha’s household. Uttering the single word “Allah!” in a voice of thunder, Hassan burst the cord that bound his hands to the post, and dashing them apart with the full power of his gigantic strength, the rusted manacles snapped like whipcord: a single bound brought him to the side of the astonished Bey, who had scarcely time to take the pipe from his mouth ere he received from the iron chain still hanging from Hassan’s right hand a blow which broke his nose and deluged his face in blood. Without turning even to give him a look, Hassan dashed impetuously forward, brandishing a sword that he had snatched from the Bey’s nearest attendant. Some made way for him apparently paralysed by fear or surprise, some doubtless from secret friendship, so that, here and there parrying a random cut or thrust, he succeeded in gaining the palm-grove.