Part 16

The Jew having arrived at the appointed hour, was surprised to find himself in the grip of Hassan, who threatened to shake the life out of his body if he did not confess from whom he had got the sword. The affrighted Jew, finding that denial was vain, owned that it had been brought to him by a servant of Delì Pasha’s, named Youssuf, a few days before, and that he had himself taken out the diamonds to prevent its recognition. The two friends followed up the investigation with energy. Under the wholesome discipline of the stick Youssuf confessed that he had stolen the sword from Kasem’s room while he was in attendance on the Pasha. The diamonds were immediately recovered and replaced. On the fourth evening the sword was sent up into the harem by the chief eunuch with the following note:—

“HONOURED AND RESPECTED LORD,—The sword was stolen by the slave Youssuf while Kasem was waiting in your presence. This from your faithful and devoted

HASSAN.”

Delì Pasha had read this note aloud. When he had finished it, Amina sprang up, and saying, “Allah be praised!” burst into tears of joy.

“Whence this strong emotion?” said he, surprised at her feeling so much interest in the subject.

“Because,” she replied, while blushes mantled over her face and neck—“because I knew how much you valued that sword.”

Oh, you little hypocrite, Amina!

Delì Pasha recovered slowly, and for several days never left his harem: something seemed to weigh upon his mind, and all Amina’s caresses and endearments were unable to restore his usual spirits. She could not understand the cause of this melancholy, for his lost sword had been recovered, the young Mameluke Kasem had been liberated by his order, and Mohammed Ali had shown his regard for him and his appreciation of the Arab mare Nebleh by sending an officer specially to inquire after his health, and to present him with a diamond ring on the part of his Highness, accompanied by a handsome sword for Ahmed Aga and a cashmere shawl for Hassan.

By dint of coaxing she at length elicited from him that his proud spirit was chafing at the humiliation to which he had been exposed by the outbreak of his ungovernable temper before all his household, and that exposure he most unjustly laid to the account of Hassan.

“My father,” she said as she sat at his feet, while his hand unconsciously played with the dark, redundant tresses that fell over her shoulders, “now that anger and illness have passed away, and that your good health and judgment are returning, do you not see that what Hassan did was done in fidelity and true service to you? Had he not spoken and stayed you in a moment when wrath had clouded your reason, the poor Mameluke would have been beaten nearly to death for a fault of which he was innocent. What would then have been said of my father’s justice and humanity? Now that all has terminated so happily, ought you not rather to thank Hassan than to blame him?”

“I will thank him,” said her father, “for you speak truly; he deserves it. But methinks you plead his cause with great earnestness, Amina.” As he said these last words he looked fixedly at his daughter, who cast down her eyes, deeply blushing.

“My father,” she replied timidly and with suppressed emotion, “you know our proverb, ‘El-rghàib ma lehu nàib’ [The absent has no advocate], and I have often heard from you that it is right to defend those who are absent and who are unjustly blamed. You have yourself spoken to me of the zeal, the courage, and good qualities of this Hassan, and I therefore felt sure that it was from his devotion to you, and not from insolence, that he spoke to you at a moment when your mind was not your own, and thus prevented you from doing that which would have cost you after-pain, in the experience of our saying, ‘Precipitation is from Satan, but patience is the key of contentment.’ You are not angry with me, are you, father?”

“Who could be angry with you, light of my eyes and treasure of my heart?” exclaimed the old Pasha, kissing her forehead. “No, my child; yet you know not what sufferings my mind has undergone. When one of those fits of fury is upon me, if any one opposes or remonstrates with me, I become mad. Hassan’s speech, though true, drove me to the extreme of madness and to the verge of murder.” Here his voice became husky with emotion. “Yes, Amina, I rushed at him with a drawn dagger; he never stirred, but opened his breast to me. I was in the act of striking when I met his large dark eye fixed upon me, not in fear, not in anger, but in love—yes, Amina, it was a look he might have fixed upon his mother, if he had one, poor youth! It conquered me! for the last thing that I remember was, that I passed the weapon purposely beyond his shoulder; but how he must hate—how he must despise me now!”

Amina’s tears gushed from between the fair fingers that vainly strove to hide them. That her father should have been on the verge of murdering the idol of her heart,—that he, in the pride of youth and strength, should have bared his breast to the dagger rather than raise an arm against her father,—these thoughts produced contending emotions of horror and tenderness sufficient to overpower her self-control, and she wept without interruption, for Delì Pasha himself was much overcome by the feelings which he had just expressed.

At length she looked up, smiling through her tears, and said, “Father, if he is brave and generous as you say, he will not hate you. Tell him frankly the truth—that in a moment when your mind was overclouded by anger you did him injustice—and he will love you, and you will love him, better than before.”

“Inshallah! dear little prophetess, it shall be as you say, and, Inshallah! this shall have been the last time that men shall say of Delì Pasha that his passion blinded his eyes and overcame his reason.”

Here we may add that the future confirmed the strength of his resolution. The mental shock which had followed this last outbreak was never forgotten. When, a few days later, he left the harem, his first act was to send for Hassan and to make the frank _amende_ suggested by Amina. He read in the young man’s glowing eyes, as he kissed his lord’s hand with an eagerness and devotion such as he had never before exhibited, the truth of her prophecy that he should find himself not hated or despised, but better loved than ever.

Little Kasem was reinstated in favour, and it need not be said that his gratitude to Hassan was unbounded: neither will it excite surprise that the influence of the latter in the household had been much increased by the scene which they had so lately witnessed; for never before had they seen any one successfully venture to brave the wrath of their proverbially irascible chief.

Hassan spent the few days which yet remained before the migration of the whole family to Siout in making the few arrangements which he had for some time proposed. He sent off the eight horses taken from the Sammalous, with a respectfully affectionate letter, to his foster-father, accompanied by fitting presents to his foster-mother and sister; he wrote also a grateful letter to his former patron, the Hadji Ismael, in Alexandria, and another to his old friend the chief clerk. He went then with Ahmed Aga to the village in Karioonbiah, armed with the Pasha’s authority to appoint another _nazir_ and Sheik-el-Beled in the place of the two scoundrels who had been detected and dismissed. When they had made the best selection in their power, and arranged the village accounts, they turned their horses’ heads again towards Cairo, Ahmed Aga saying as they mounted—

“I suppose now we have made two more rogues, for the saying in the country is, ‘If you want to find a match for the priest and the _câdi_, you must go to the _nazir_ and the Sheik-el-Beled.’”

“I am glad that they omitted the _khaznadâr_ in the proverb,” said Hassan, laughing.

“The _khaznadâr_ and the _mirakhor_,” replied his friend, “are bad enough in general, but, as the Arabs say, they are ‘tied by a shorter rope,’ and cannot eat so much of their neighbours’ corn.”

It was during the long ride from the village back to the city that Hassan related, in confidence to his friend, some of the details of his early life—the name that he had borne in his youth, and the mystery in which his birth was still involved.

“It is very strange,” said Ahmed, who had mused in silence after Hassan had finished his narrative. “I have lived in Cairo now many years, and have known or heard the history of many families, high and low, yet I cannot recall any occurrence similar to what you relate; neither can I understand how it has come to pass that neither of your parents has ever made inquiries after you among the Arabs in the neighbourhood.”

“That is easily explained,” said Hassan. “My father, who was probably a soldier, may have been killed in battle, and my mother may never have seen him since he carried me off an infant, probably to save my life: if so, she may never have heard of my having been given into the charge of a Bedouin woman.”

Hassan spoke these words in a tone so sad that to cheer him his friend replied, “Inshallah! this knot will one day be untied by the Revealer of Secrets,[93] whatever be the secret. I will swear by my life that your father was a brave man and your mother a good woman; for you know the proverb, ‘Grapes are not borne by the thistle-bush.’ Meanwhile, you must comfort yourself by remembering the saying of the Persian sheik and poet [Sâdi], ‘On the Day of Judgment Allah will not ask you who was your father, but who are you, and what deeds have you done.’”

Conversing on this and other topics, the friends concluded their journey, and were just re-entering Boulak about sunset, when, in passing a narrow by-street at right angles to that in which they were riding, Hassan saw at a little distance a figure in which, by the dress and gait, he at once recognised the old woman who had inveigled him into the house of the Khanum. Springing off his horse and giving it over to the _sàis_, he requested Ahmed Aga to continue his way homeward with the servants, promising to rejoin him shortly. Following the old woman until she reached a part of the street where not a passenger was to be seen, he quickened his step, and overtaking her, seized her by the arm and said to her in a stern voice—

“Mother of evil, tell me at once who urged you to take me to that house?”

The crone, trusting to the concealment of her thick veil, endeavoured at first to persuade him that he was mistaken in the person whom he addressed, but her voice only made him more sure than he had been before: then she tried sundry kinds of subterfuges and falsehoods, until his patience being exhausted, he exclaimed—

“Wallah! unless you tell me the truth, and that instantly, I will drag you straight to the Kiahia Pasha, and tell your story to him: you well know that in a few hours you will find yourself at the bottom of the Nile.”

Under the terror of this threat she confessed that it was by Ferraj, the servant of Osman Bey, that she had been induced to address him and to introduce him to the house in question.

“Osman Bey!” said Hassan bitterly. “Well, I am his debtor; meanwhile do you, if you value your life, hold your peace and begone. I owe you no illwill. Wretched instrument of malice,” he muttered to himself as he strode homeward, “thou art beneath my notice. What says our proverb, ‘The anger of the arrow-stricken man is kindled not against the bow but against the archer.’ Osman Bey, we shall meet again, and, Inshallah! with some weapon in our hands better than a jereed.”

Little did Hassan know, when he breathed this wish, how soon it would be realised, and what an influence that meeting would have on his after-destinies. When we see in life how often the blessings that we pray for become, when granted, sources of misfortune, and the events which we dread and deprecate result in our happiness, it seems an act of folly, if not of impiety, to pray for earthly goods in any other form than that of “Not my will, but thine be done.”

* * * * *

Most of our _dramatis personæ_ are now to be separated for a season. The Thorpe family having finished their examination of the Pyramids, had re-embarked on the Nile for Upper Egypt, and Delì Pasha’s preparations for the journey to Siout were just completed. He himself, with his official secretary, pipe-bearers, and the greater part of his household, were embarked on board of a large dahabiah; a second of similar dimensions, the cabin-windows of which were provided with damask curtains within and venetian blinds without, was allotted to his harem, with their eunuch attendants, and was ordered to remain always immediately in the wake of the first; while Hassan and Ahmed, with a score of armed followers, were to perform the journey along the banks of the river on horseback, and to bivouac as a guard every night at whatever place the boats might be made fast at sunset.[94]

All was ready for departure, and the harem was already embarked, when an officer from the Viceroy came to Delì Pasha and told him that his Highness wished him to remain a few days to attend a council on some matters of importance. “He knows,” added the officer, “that you are on the point of departure, and part of your family already embarked, wherefore he desires that you will not take the trouble to detain them, but let them go leisurely on their journey, retaining two or three servants to attend upon you. When the council is over, his Highness will give you a swift _canjah_ of his own, which will bring you to Siout as soon as your large heavy dahabiahs.”

“On my head be it,” replied Delì Pasha. And having retained only a few Mamelukes for the service of his wardrobe and chibouq, he desired his own boats to go forward as originally designed, placing the _kateb-es-serr_, or chief secretary (a quiet, respectable, and elderly Turk), in charge of the leading dahabiah, and in command of those whom she contained. To Ahmed Aga and Hassan he said, “I know that I can trust my boats and harem to your vigilance at night; there are many thieves in Upper Egypt, so you must not indulge in more than a hare’s sleep.”[95]

Under these instructions the dahabiahs started on their voyage northward, and pursued it without accident or interruption until they reached a point of the river not more than twenty miles below Siout. Night was coming on, a strong gale of wind from the eastward had set in, which, in spite of all the exertions of the pilots and sailors, drove the dahabiahs against the west bank of the Nile, where the current was running with terrific violence, and the waves dashed over the low sides of the boats.

Fearful of being carried down by the stream, the _ràises_ ordered the men to jump out ashore and make fast the boats with the anchors, and also by ropes passed round sharp staves driven into the ground. With the leading boat the manœuvre succeeded, and she was brought to in a bight of the bank, where she was in comparatively smooth and sheltered water; but the boat containing the harem broke from her moorings, and in spite of all the exertions of her crew hauling on her from the shore, she was carried some way along the rough and jagged bank, thereby scraping off her cabin paint and terrifying the timid inmates.

Suddenly she came against some broken timbers of an old disused _sakìah_ or water-wheel, which smashed in all the cabin windows on the land side, shivering in pieces the Venetian blinds and tearing the damask curtains in shreds. Immediately all was panic on board the boat, and the affrighted eunuchs and women, thinking that the cabin would be flooded, rushed on to the upper deck, which was entirely deserted by the crew, who were busily employed forward in endeavouring to bring the boat to. All were pulling, and hauling, and shouting, and ordering; but no one was listening or obeying. The consequence was that their exertions, without direction or unity, were fruitless, and the boat continued to drift down, still grating her sides against the high and jagged bank.

Among the affrighted women assembled on what we may call the poop, Amina and her faithful Fatimeh had withdrawn quite to the stern of the boat, the place usually occupied by the steersman, where the former sat herself down on a hen-coop and looked out in terror on the dark and turbid waters, when suddenly the tiller, which had been left unsecured, swept across the deck with such force that it threw Amina and her hen-coop overboard, at the same time knocking down and stunning Fatimeh Khanum, who fell against the low railing that surrounds the poop.

At the time Hassan and Ahmed Aga were some hundred yards astern of the boats, followed by their own men and by a dozen fellahs whom they had brought from the nearest village as night-watchers. Hearing the shouts and cries ahead, they conjectured that some accident had happened, though they could not see any distant object, as the dusk of evening was darkened by a gloomy sky and the dust borne on the wings of the angry blast. Suddenly a faint cry from the water reached the ear of Hassan, and turning his eyes in the direction whence it came, he thought he descried something like drapery hurried along by the current about fifty yards from the shore.

Quick as thought he sprang from his horse, cast his cloak on the ground, threw his pistols on it, and crying to Ahmed, “Wallah! there is a woman or child drowning,” plunged head-foremost into the dark and boiling waters.

Ahmed Aga, who had seen no object in the water and heard no cry, thought that his young friend must be mad. Nevertheless, he could not help admiring the daring gallantry which prompted him to brave the roaring rushing waters on such a night with the hope of rescuing a fellow-creature, but he had no time left for musing, for the cries and shouts continued to rise from the dahabiah, and his duty bade him hasten thither without delay.

Ordering one of his men to secure Hassan’s horse, cloak, and pistols, he went forward, and by the aid of his own presence of mind, and the force that he brought with him, succeeded at last in securing the dahabiah to the bank. It was not until order was somewhat restored, and the eunuchs went up on the poop to reconduct the ladies and women slaves to the cabin, that they found Fatimeh Khanum lying half-stunned, and her head still confused by the blow from the tiller. Amina was nowhere to be found. The cries and confusion thence ensuing can be more easily imagined than described.

To return to Hassan. No sooner did he rise to the surface from his plunge than he swam down the stream with all his might, looking on both sides, and calling aloud as he went. For some time his humane endeavours met with no success, but at length, in answer to his call, a faint cry caught his ear. Striking out in that direction, he came up with a hen-coop made of palm-sticks, and over it he could distinguish female drapery.

“Take courage! take courage! I am here to help,” he shouted aloud; and as he neared the hen-coop he heard his own name faintly uttered.

Who can paint the tumultuous rush of feelings as he recognised the voice of his idolised Amina—feelings compared to the moral force and impetuosity of which the rushing and turbid waters of the Nile were calm as a mill-pond. Terror, pity, joy, love,—all were poured into the thrilling tone in which he called aloud her name. “Fear not, my beloved,” he continued; “you are now safe. Your arm over the hen-coop; your chin resting on your arm, my love. Hold fast to it, and do not speak; keep your sweet mouth shut, or these rough and angry waters might choke you. Thus, my love; my arm is close to you, so you have nothing to fear; I will guide the hen-coop towards the bank.”

The tender and cheering tone in which he spoke as he swam beside her giving her these instructions, placing her hand himself on the centre and most buoyant part of the hen-coop, inspired the courageous girl with hope and confidence. Hitherto she had clung to her frail cage-support with the grasp of despair, and more than once the cold, and the water that had forced its way into her lips, eyes, and nostrils, had almost compelled her to let go her hold. But now she felt herself possessed of new life, and such was her confidence in Hassan’s skill, courage, and devotion, she felt that with him beside her, whether in mid-ocean or mid-desert, she could know no fear. At the worst, to die in his arms would be bliss far beyond life without him. She now proved her own high courage by obeying implicitly his directions without uttering a word.

Hassan had noted in his evening ride that for some miles below the bank which he had left was high and precipitous; he well knew, therefore, that the opposite bank would be shelving, and the current less strong.[96] This consideration compelled him to push the hen-coop before him to the opposite bank, the first object being to get Amina out of the water as soon as possible. This he accordingly did, though, much to her surprise, he kept talking loudly all the time, splashing and making as much noise as he could with hands and feet.[97]

He thus succeeded in bringing his fair charge safely ashore, and opposite the point where he landed he descried a faintly-glimmering light, like that of a nearly extinguished fire. His first care was to wring the water from her drenched clothes, then casting off his own jacket and wringing it, he threw it over her shoulders to shelter her from the cold and biting wind.

Seeing that she was too much exhausted to walk, he lifted her gently in his arms and carried her towards the dim light. On reaching it he found that it proceeded from the dying embers of a fire which had been made in front of a small hut such as are often constructed in Egypt by shepherds or fishermen for temporary shelter. It was unoccupied, though he surmised that the tenant could not be far distant, as he perceived in one corner of it a striped blanket (such as is used by the fellahs in winter), and on it the owner’s _nabout_ or cudgel.

“El-hamdu-lillah! Praise be to Allah!” said he, as he possessed himself of these invaluable treasures; and in another moment he had wrapped Amina from head to foot in the blanket, and laid her gently in the corner of the hut.

Then he ventured to ask her how she felt.

“Faint and very cold, dear Hassan,” was the gently murmured reply; for, notwithstanding her delicate nurture, the brave girl’s spirit had sustained her so long as the danger endured, but now the reaction had come, and with it exhaustion, which seemed to deprive her of all bodily and mental energy.

“Patience,” whispered Hassan; “this blanket will soon make you warm. Meantime I will see if there be wood or dry weeds to restore this dead fire.” With the staff in hand he went round and round the hut, but his search was fruitless. He lay down, and, putting his ear to the ground, thought he could distinguish some sound: he crept quietly up to the top of a bank at a distance from the water, and could descry, about a mile inland, a large fire and some tents.

“Dry clothes and some warm drink she must have,” he said to himself, “and there is no time to lose. I know not what men these may be, but the risk must be incurred.” He felt his girdle, and to his great joy found that his dagger was safe in its place: he then returned to the hut and asked Amina if she felt herself sufficiently recovered to go to some tents and a fire not far off.

“Let me die here,” she murmured; “you have saved me from those cold and rushing waters. Let me go to sleep here, Hassan, while you sing to me. Sleep, sleep.”

Hassan saw that her mind was overpowered by exhaustion, but he so much feared the effect of the wet clothing on her delicately nurtured frame that he decided to reach the fire with as little delay as possible.