Mohammed Ali and His House [31]
I shall rise. In case you should hear of me some day, in case my celebrity should reach even this desolate rock, I will tell you my name. My name is Osman, and in mockery, because I served a nobleman, they added bey to it. But I tell you, I will make of the name given me in derision a real title! If you hear of me some day, I shall be called Osman Bey in earnest."
"I will tell you my name, too," said Mohammed, proudly, "and if you ever hear of me, you shall know that you once met me here upon the beach. My name is Mohammed Ali, and I am Ibrahim Aga's son. I am a freeman, you must know, and have never bowed my head beneath the yoke of another! Remember my name, little Osman, and, if Allah wills it, you shall hear of me someday. My name is Mohammed Ali."
He nodded to the boy contemptuously, and walked off.
Osman laughed, and cried after him:
"You will probably hear of me first, you bold boy, you beggar- prince! I shall probably never hear of the beggar-prince, Mohammed Ali, son of Ibrahim Aga, but of me you shall hear, you silly lad! Don't forget my name: I am called Osman Bey."
If they both could now have known the future! If a prophet had permitted the two boys who met here for the first time, in order that they might angrily impress their names on each other's memory, to look into the future, what would they have seen in its mirror?
Two heroes opposed to each other in ardent love, and in wild enmity. Both equally great, equally ambitious, and equally greedy of glory. They would have seen blood flowing in streams for their sake. They would have seen how Osman Bey, called by the name of Bardissi, dashed onward, flourishing his cimeter at the head of thousands of devoted followers. They would have seen Mohammed Ali in a glittering uniform, mounted on his proud steed, at the head of thousands charging with uplifted sword against Bardissi.
Here on a rock in the bay of San Marmora, the boys met for the first time, and instinct permitted them to feel the enmity that existed between them throughout their entire lives, and which caused thousands to fall, and blood to flow in streams.
They know nothing of this now. Osman whistles a merry air and jumps into the boat that bears him back to the ship. Mohammed Ali ascends the rock to a quiet and solitary spot. There he will rest and meditate on what he has seen and heard to-day.
The ship sails out to sea. Like a giant swan, proudly, majestically, it glides over the blue waves, until at last it rises up in the distance with its masts and spars against the horizon, faintly, like a mere vision of the air.
Above, on the Ear of Bucephalus, stands Mohammed Ali, leaning on his gun, his eyes fixed on the ship. He sighs profoundly as it now disappears without leaving the slightest trace behind, as though engulfed by the waters.
"Gone," he murmured--"gone! What was the name of the boy, the slave who so defiantly charged me to remember his name? I remember, it was Osman. Yes, Osman Bey, he said. Well, he may depend upon it I shall remember his name, and he may also count on remembering that my name is Mohammed Ali, if we should ever meet again. Oh, I envy him," said he, in low tones, looking longingly at the horizon. "Oh, I would so gladly have gone with him to the wondrous land the scha-er told of, where slaves become heroes, and heroes princes. He, the slave, goes thither; and I, who am free, am bound to this rock by my poor mother, and must remain!"
The ship sailed on farther and farther on the bright waves. It glided onward over the deep-blue sea two days longer; on the third day the sailors shouted with joy, for the water had become green, and this announced to the experienced seamen that they should soon see land.
When the waves of the Mediterranean Sea change from blue to green, the yellow coast of Africa is near. Another day passed, and the ship entered the harbor of Alexandria. The black and brown people came out to the ship, howling and yelling in their little boats, and with them came the slave-dealers to look for human wares, to bargain for the
"I will tell you my name, too," said Mohammed, proudly, "and if you ever hear of me, you shall know that you once met me here upon the beach. My name is Mohammed Ali, and I am Ibrahim Aga's son. I am a freeman, you must know, and have never bowed my head beneath the yoke of another! Remember my name, little Osman, and, if Allah wills it, you shall hear of me someday. My name is Mohammed Ali."
He nodded to the boy contemptuously, and walked off.
Osman laughed, and cried after him:
"You will probably hear of me first, you bold boy, you beggar- prince! I shall probably never hear of the beggar-prince, Mohammed Ali, son of Ibrahim Aga, but of me you shall hear, you silly lad! Don't forget my name: I am called Osman Bey."
If they both could now have known the future! If a prophet had permitted the two boys who met here for the first time, in order that they might angrily impress their names on each other's memory, to look into the future, what would they have seen in its mirror?
Two heroes opposed to each other in ardent love, and in wild enmity. Both equally great, equally ambitious, and equally greedy of glory. They would have seen blood flowing in streams for their sake. They would have seen how Osman Bey, called by the name of Bardissi, dashed onward, flourishing his cimeter at the head of thousands of devoted followers. They would have seen Mohammed Ali in a glittering uniform, mounted on his proud steed, at the head of thousands charging with uplifted sword against Bardissi.
Here on a rock in the bay of San Marmora, the boys met for the first time, and instinct permitted them to feel the enmity that existed between them throughout their entire lives, and which caused thousands to fall, and blood to flow in streams.
They know nothing of this now. Osman whistles a merry air and jumps into the boat that bears him back to the ship. Mohammed Ali ascends the rock to a quiet and solitary spot. There he will rest and meditate on what he has seen and heard to-day.
The ship sails out to sea. Like a giant swan, proudly, majestically, it glides over the blue waves, until at last it rises up in the distance with its masts and spars against the horizon, faintly, like a mere vision of the air.
Above, on the Ear of Bucephalus, stands Mohammed Ali, leaning on his gun, his eyes fixed on the ship. He sighs profoundly as it now disappears without leaving the slightest trace behind, as though engulfed by the waters.
"Gone," he murmured--"gone! What was the name of the boy, the slave who so defiantly charged me to remember his name? I remember, it was Osman. Yes, Osman Bey, he said. Well, he may depend upon it I shall remember his name, and he may also count on remembering that my name is Mohammed Ali, if we should ever meet again. Oh, I envy him," said he, in low tones, looking longingly at the horizon. "Oh, I would so gladly have gone with him to the wondrous land the scha-er told of, where slaves become heroes, and heroes princes. He, the slave, goes thither; and I, who am free, am bound to this rock by my poor mother, and must remain!"
The ship sailed on farther and farther on the bright waves. It glided onward over the deep-blue sea two days longer; on the third day the sailors shouted with joy, for the water had become green, and this announced to the experienced seamen that they should soon see land.
When the waves of the Mediterranean Sea change from blue to green, the yellow coast of Africa is near. Another day passed, and the ship entered the harbor of Alexandria. The black and brown people came out to the ship, howling and yelling in their little boats, and with them came the slave-dealers to look for human wares, to bargain for the