“Why, this is not the seal of Hadji Ismael, it is that of the Viceroy;” and he was proceeding leisurely to open it when Hassan snatched it from him, saying—
“How dare you open it! I must deliver it unopened into the Pasha’s own hands.”
“Why, you young hot-blood,” said the other, holding out his two large muscular hands, “whose hands are these if they are not Delì Pasha’s?”
“Is it so, indeed?” said Hassan, in some confusion. “I was not aware that I was speaking to his Excellency.”
“There is no harm done, boy,” said the Pasha, smiling good-humouredly. “You did not expect to see his Excellency with his arms bare and a courbatch in his hand. Now that you know me, give me the letter.”
Taking it from the youth’s hand, he read it carefully, stopping every now and then to give a scrutinising glance at the bearer; and when he came to the postscript added by the Viceroy’s order, he laughed till the tears stood in his eyes.
“By my father’s beard!” he said, “all will soon be mad in this house. Mohammed Ali sends you to me, saying that you are as mad as myself; and it is only yesterday that Ibrahim Pasha sent me that cursed horse, telling me that it was as mad as myself. If the father’s statement prove as true as the son’s, you must be mad indeed, for such a devil I never beheld.”
“Devil,” said Hassan, looking at the furious and struggling animal with unrepressed admiration; “he seems to me beautiful as an angel.”
“You say true,” replied Delì Pasha, “his form is perfect; and Ibrahim brought him away as a colt from the Wahabees. He is of pure Kohèil blood; but Shèitan[[50]] is his name, and Shèitan is his nature; nothing can tame him. He has nearly killed two of Ibrahim Pasha’s grooms, and he sends the animal to me as a present, telling me that it is just like myself.”
“If he be a Kohèil,” said Hassan, “he will never be tamed by such means as I saw your Excellency using when I came into the courtyard.”