Abou-Hamedi and Abd-hoo having been summoned and taken charge of their trust with a gravity and deportment suited to their assumed characters, our hero wrote the receipt in a bold hand, and in the following terms:—
“I, Hassan, Child of the Pyramid, hereby acknowledge that I have received from Moktar Effendi the sum of one hundred and twenty purses [£600] belonging to the Egyptian Government, and that it is my intention to repay the same when it suits my convenience. I further add that the said Moktar Effendi only delivered me this money when under fear of his life, and when he had no means of resisting the force which I had at hand: he should therefore be held exempt from blame by his humane and just lord, Mohammed Ali.”
Having delivered this receipt to the still bewildered Effendi, Hassan said to him, “My good friend, now that our business is terminated, we will have one more pipe of fellowship before we part; but remember that my eye is upon you.”
The pipe having been duly smoked and the attendants dismissed, Hassan addressed his terrified host—
“Effendi, the most disagreeable part of my duty remains to be performed, as I would fain have parted from you with politeness and friendship; but as your duty would require that you should alarm all the village as soon as my foot is in the stirrup, it is necessary for my safety and for yours that I should secure your quietude: your servants will soon come to release you, but for a while it is requisite that you should be bound.” So saying, he produced a cord, which he had brought for the purpose, and having bound his terror-stricken host hand and foot, and stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth to prevent his calling out, he left the room, and leisurely descending the stairs, mounted his horse, giving pieces of silver to the servants at the door with a liberality worthy of a Bey or Pasha.
He and his party proceeded slowly on the road towards the soldiers’ encampment until they were out of sight of the village, when they suddenly turned off towards the desert, and after an hour’s gallop rejoined the remainder of the band. On the following morning at daylight they were eighty miles distant from the scene of this feat.
It is needless to portray the astonishment of Moktar Effendi’s servants when they found their master bound and gagged in a corner of his room, grunting and sputtering in his vain endeavours to call for help. When they released his tongue and his limbs, his first act was to ask in a trembling voice, “Is he gone?”
“Who?” they replied; “his Excellency the Bey, your visitor?—yes, he is gone.”
“The Bey!” muttered Moktar Effendi, whose courage was now partially restored. “Know ye not, sons of dogs and asses that ye are, that the scoundrel was no Bey, but Hassan Ebn-el-Heràm, the outlaw chief, who has plundered me and laughed at my beard. Allah! Allah! what dust has fallen on my head—what dirt have I eaten! There lies his cursed receipt for the money. How can I send it to Mohammed Ali? he will defile the graves of my forefathers. Alas! alas! there is no power nor trust save in Allah.”
Such were the terms in which the unhappy Defterdar bewailed his fate, and prepared to enclose to the Viceroy a full report of his misfortune, together with the receipt left by the audacious outlaw. Mohammed Ali, in one of those moods of clemency and generosity which were not unfrequent with him, forgave the poor Defterdar, and replaced the plundered money from his own purse, saying, “Hassan shall one day fulfil his promise of repayment.”