Mohammed Ali and His House [20]
looked at his son. "You are ill, my Osman. Allah will grant you speedy recovery, and then you will become strong and healthy like Mohammed Ali.--Well!" he cried to the boy who had stood still at some distance with his birds in his hand--"well, I see you have kept your word, and brought my son the wild-pigeons."
"I have, and am glad that I was able to do so." replied Mohammed, as he now came nearer in obedience to the bey's request, and greeted the pale boy with a joyous smile.
"Give me your hand, Mohammed," said the young boy, who had partially risen from his cushions, and was supporting himself on his elbow. Timidly, Mohammed took the boy's pale, thin hand in his own.
"Tell me, Mohammed, why do you not come to see me oftener? You know how glad I always am to see you."
"Master, he did not visit you, because it does not become the poor to intrude upon the rich and noble," replied Mohammed, his eyes fixed with an anxious expression on Osman's pale face.
"Rich and noble!" repeated Osman, with a sigh. "You are rich, Mohammed, for you are healthy. You are noble, Mohammed; for the inhabitants of the sea and of the air must obey you. You have power, and that is nobility."
The tschorbadji was displeased with these humble words of his son, and his brow became clouded.
"I think you should be content with your riches and nobility, my son," said he. "Come, hand me the pigeons, Mohammed."
He took the beautifully feathered birds from Mohammed's hand, looked at them, and let their feathers play in the sun light. "Yes, they are still warm; so the world goes. An hour since they disported themselves in life's sunshine. The child of man comes, sends a few shot through their bodies, and their glory is at an end. But, I thank you, Mohammed, for having so quickly complied with our wish. Here is your reward." He took two gold-pieces from his purse and handed them to the boy in his outstretched hand.
Mohammed did not take them. He drew back at the words of the governor, a deep color suffusing itself over his cheeks.
Osman perceived this, and motioned to him to come nearer to his couch. "Mohammed," said he, "father forgot to add for what purpose he wished to give you the money. Not for yourself. I know that your procuring these pigeons for me was an act of friendship. You have always been friendly to me, and I shall never forget what you did for me the other day."
"What was it?" asked the tschorbadji, with surprise.
"You know nothing of it, father. I did not mention it to you because I feared it might make you angry," replied Osman, gently. "I had had myself carried out on the rock. You know I like to rest there, in the sunlight, under the olive-tree that stretches out its limbs over the water. From that point you can look so far out over the sea. There you can see where heaven and earth unite, and strange dreams and wishes overcome over me there. The sea murmurs at my feet in such wondrous, mysterious tones, that my heart warms and my breast expands. The physician, too, had said that I should breathe the fresh air of the cliffs very often, and I had been carried out, and lay there at rest in sweet, solitary silence. I did not observe that the sky was darkening, and a storm coming on. It also escaped the notice of the two servants who had carried me out in the chair. Now that the rain already began to fall in large drops, they became alarmed, and both ran away rapidly to procure a covered palanquin, as the physician had said I must be carefully guarded against taking cold. They had hardly gone and left me alone when it began to rain harder, and I felt the large drops slowly trickling down upon me through the leaves of the olive-tree. The rain was very cold. The storm raged and tore the protecting foliage of the tree apart. Suddenly I heard footsteps. It was Mohammed Ali. He was rapidly passing by, but when he saw me lying there under the tree, alone, he came up to me, and understood the situation at a glance. In spite of my resistance, he spread his body over me, and protected me from the rain and discomfort.
"I have, and am glad that I was able to do so." replied Mohammed, as he now came nearer in obedience to the bey's request, and greeted the pale boy with a joyous smile.
"Give me your hand, Mohammed," said the young boy, who had partially risen from his cushions, and was supporting himself on his elbow. Timidly, Mohammed took the boy's pale, thin hand in his own.
"Tell me, Mohammed, why do you not come to see me oftener? You know how glad I always am to see you."
"Master, he did not visit you, because it does not become the poor to intrude upon the rich and noble," replied Mohammed, his eyes fixed with an anxious expression on Osman's pale face.
"Rich and noble!" repeated Osman, with a sigh. "You are rich, Mohammed, for you are healthy. You are noble, Mohammed; for the inhabitants of the sea and of the air must obey you. You have power, and that is nobility."
The tschorbadji was displeased with these humble words of his son, and his brow became clouded.
"I think you should be content with your riches and nobility, my son," said he. "Come, hand me the pigeons, Mohammed."
He took the beautifully feathered birds from Mohammed's hand, looked at them, and let their feathers play in the sun light. "Yes, they are still warm; so the world goes. An hour since they disported themselves in life's sunshine. The child of man comes, sends a few shot through their bodies, and their glory is at an end. But, I thank you, Mohammed, for having so quickly complied with our wish. Here is your reward." He took two gold-pieces from his purse and handed them to the boy in his outstretched hand.
Mohammed did not take them. He drew back at the words of the governor, a deep color suffusing itself over his cheeks.
Osman perceived this, and motioned to him to come nearer to his couch. "Mohammed," said he, "father forgot to add for what purpose he wished to give you the money. Not for yourself. I know that your procuring these pigeons for me was an act of friendship. You have always been friendly to me, and I shall never forget what you did for me the other day."
"What was it?" asked the tschorbadji, with surprise.
"You know nothing of it, father. I did not mention it to you because I feared it might make you angry," replied Osman, gently. "I had had myself carried out on the rock. You know I like to rest there, in the sunlight, under the olive-tree that stretches out its limbs over the water. From that point you can look so far out over the sea. There you can see where heaven and earth unite, and strange dreams and wishes overcome over me there. The sea murmurs at my feet in such wondrous, mysterious tones, that my heart warms and my breast expands. The physician, too, had said that I should breathe the fresh air of the cliffs very often, and I had been carried out, and lay there at rest in sweet, solitary silence. I did not observe that the sky was darkening, and a storm coming on. It also escaped the notice of the two servants who had carried me out in the chair. Now that the rain already began to fall in large drops, they became alarmed, and both ran away rapidly to procure a covered palanquin, as the physician had said I must be carefully guarded against taking cold. They had hardly gone and left me alone when it began to rain harder, and I felt the large drops slowly trickling down upon me through the leaves of the olive-tree. The rain was very cold. The storm raged and tore the protecting foliage of the tree apart. Suddenly I heard footsteps. It was Mohammed Ali. He was rapidly passing by, but when he saw me lying there under the tree, alone, he came up to me, and understood the situation at a glance. In spite of my resistance, he spread his body over me, and protected me from the rain and discomfort.