Delì Pasha could not trust himself to speak, but he folded her to his heart in a silence more eloquent than words, and the reconciliation between father and daughter was complete.
Often afterwards, when alone together, they spoke of Hassan, and wondered what had become of him, till at length reports reached them which, although they threw a light upon his fate, filled them with grief and dismay.
In order to explain these more fully we must resume the thread of our narrative at the point where we left our hero clad in the dress of the kawàss whom he had despoiled, and journeying northward along the border of the desert, leading his spare horse by the bridle.
He had travelled some four or five hours at a round pace without halting, when he met half-a-dozen wild-looking Bedouin Arabs, well-mounted and armed with lance and sword. Forgetting at the moment that the dress which he wore might not find favour in the eyes of these children of the desert, he rode forward to meet them, when one who seemed their leader, after conversing for a few moments with his companions, called aloud to him—
“Halt, you kawàss, servant of some grasping Turk; if you would have us spare your life, dismount and give us up those two horses.”
“I am no kawàss,” replied Hassan, addressing the surprised Arabs in the deep-toned guttural accents of a Bedouin, “but a son of the desert like yourselves. ’Tis but a few hours since a kawàss attacked me, and I killed him and took his horse. If you wish to fight, the same arms that killed him are ready for you. If you desire peace, Bismillah! I am your friend.”
While speaking, he deliberately drew a pistol from his girdle and brought round the hilt of his sword ready for his hand. The Bedouins were completely puzzled by his appearance and language; his powerful figure, noble mien, and the perfect coolness with which he challenged six men to combat, compelled their involuntary admiration, while his dress denoted hostility to their predatory band, and his horses excited their cupidity.
While they were holding a brief consultation as to the course which they should pursue, another Arab belonging to their party, who had followed them at some distance, came up: he was a broad-shouldered, stout fellow, with a black patch covering one-half of his face, and from the eagerness with which they crowded round him it was evident that his voice was not without weight among them.
“Let me see this kawàss who pretends to be a Bedouin,” said he, pushing his way through them; “I will soon tell you whether he be lion or jackal.” So saying, he advanced to within a few yards of our hero.
“Mashallah! Mashallah!” exclaimed the new-comer; and, to the astonishment of his comrades, he jumped off his horse, and running up to Hassan, kissed his hand, crying aloud, “Ya sidi, ya sidi,—My master, my master,—do you not know your faithful Abou-Hamedi?”