Part 17

“Light of my eyes!” he said, sitting down beside her, “Hassan lives only to serve you, and were it safe I would sing you to sleep and watch at your door while you rest, but danger and pain would follow, unless you can reach the warmth of the fire.”

“Where is the fire?” said Amina, trying to shake off the lethargy that threatened to overpower all her faculties.

“It is not far,” he replied; “if you will come, I will soon carry you there, and you can sleep as you go.”

“I will do whatever you say,” murmured the exhausted girl, whose ideas were still so confused that she knew not what she said. “Let us go to Boulak, and there you shall sing to me, and I will not tell anybody except Fatimeh how I love you; but do not let us go into that cold water again.”

Sweet to Hassan’s ear were some of these words, though spoken in half-unconsciousness; but his first thought now being to convey Amina to the fire, he grasped the staff in his hand, and carefully wrapping the blanket around her so that nothing but her face was exposed to the night-air, he lifted her gently in his arms.

The motion, together with the warmth of the blanket, restored her scattered senses, and also the circulation of her young blood, which had been chilled by long immersion in the water. Who shall tell what were her sensations as she found herself thus tenderly borne along by her devoted lover, or what were those of Hassan when, from the position of her head, he felt her warm breath upon his glowing cheek? When Hassan arrived within three or four hundred yards of the fire he could perceive that it was in the midst of an Arab encampment, containing at least a dozen tents.

As he had passed over the tract near the river, which was overgrown with _khalfah_ (brushwood and rushes), and had reached an open tract of smooth ground, he knew that his approach would ere long be descried, and judged that, to prevent being mistaken for a lurking enemy, his wisest course would be to make it known by calling aloud. Having gently lowered Amina’s feet to the ground, and in reply to his inquiry having ascertained that she was sufficiently recovered to walk, he readjusted the blanket so as to cover her head and leave her the use of her feet.

“Honoured and beloved, light of my eyes,” he whispered, “Allah knows whether we shall find friends or enemies in these Arabs: at all events, their watch-dogs are likely to be troublesome. I will try to move these men by words of friendship, but if they prove thieves and treacherous, we must trust to Allah. Do you remain close behind me, and leave me the free use of my arms.” (As he said this he grasped the cudgel in his right and the dagger in his left hand.) “Before they shall offer you insult or injury, they must tear me limb from limb,” he added. “It will perhaps be safer and better if among these people you pass for my—sister.”

A blush came over her face, for she knew that another and dearer name had rushed to his lips and been checked in utterance.

“Hassan,” she said, looking up into his eyes with the full confidence of a first and guileless affection, “to you I owe my life and all that makes life dear; how then can I refuse to do your bidding? for I swear by the memory of my sainted mother, on whose ashes be peace, that never did sister love a brother as——” Here she hesitated, fearful that she had said too much. How she would have finished the sentence we know not, for Hassan, stooping fondly over the sweet upturned face, now lighted by a moonbeam that struggled through the angry, flitting clouds, caught on his trembling lips the murmured confession that was denied to his ear. It was the first kiss of mutual love, and wet and cold and danger were awhile forgotten. Gently withdrawing herself from his fond embrace, she added, “Hassan, in dealing with the people of these tents, be they bad or good, curb your daring courage, and be cautious of your life for my sake.”

“Blessed treasure of my heart, I will do as you desire: I will be patient and gentle as a lamb with them unless they offer you insult, and then—— But no; if they are Arabs[98] they will respect the law of hospitality.”

So saying, he advanced from the shade of the copse directly towards the tents. Scarcely had they proceeded one hundred yards when, as he had expected, the watch-dogs began to bark, and two or three dusky figures were seen to move about near the fire: continuing his progress steadily until he came within hail, he shouted aloud at the full pitch of his powerful voice, “Brother Arabs, strangers in distress demand hospitality.”

The encampment was now all astir; dogs rushed out, followed by their masters armed with spears. Hassan again repeated the same shout, and the men were seen driving back the dogs and advancing to meet him. To the first who came up he said—

“Brothers, we have seen trouble; my sister has fallen into the Nile and is half-perished with cold; if you have a sheik or chief, bring me before him.”

With the brief reply of “You are welcome,” they conducted him and his timid companion to the largest tent of the encampment, before which the well-fed fire was blazing: the owner came forth to meet his guest, when at the same instant the words “Abou-Hamedi” and “Hassan” broke from their respective lips. It was the Damanhour Arab, formerly rescued by Hassan, on whose encampment he had thus unexpectedly fallen, and, to the astonishment of Amina the Arab’s wife and sister rushed out of their tent and crowded round her lover, kissing his hand and calling him brother and preserver.

A few words sufficed to explain the condition of Hassan and Amina, and in a few minutes the latter was in the recesses of the harem-tent, covered with dry clothes, rubbed until she was in a glow of warmth, and drinking a bowl of hot fresh milk sweetened with honey. Hassan fared no less hospitably with his host, and they related to each other their adventures over a pipe and coffee.

Whilst Hassan warmed himself by the fire he exchanged a recital of adventures with Abou-Hamedi. Those of the latter were not of a character to raise him in the estimation of the citizens of a civilised state, although they were far from being degrading in the eyes of an Arab, for he had become a leading member of a band of freebooters who had lately exercised their vocation with no little success in the province of Siout.

They were mostly Arabs from the interior of the Tunis and Tripoli deserts, who, having performed the pilgrimage to Mecca by way of Keneh and Cosseir, left the caravan on its return and levied blackmail on the villages of the left banks of the river in Upper Egypt. In order to avoid suspicion, Abou-Hamedi had located his family, and a few others of the Gemàat tribe who had accompanied him from Damanhour, on the spot where they were now encamped, on the right or eastern bank of the river, where they cultivated a small tract of ground, and passed for industrious, inoffensive people, as indeed they were, with the exception of Abou-Hamedi himself, whose notions of _meum_ and _tuum_ were somewhat indistinct, and who had “exchanged horses,” as he termed it, with a rich merchant of Siout. This exchange had been effected by the simple presentation of a pistol at the head of the latter in an unfrequented spot; and although Abou-Hamedi had obtained a fleet and powerful horse in exchange for a sorry, broken-down nag, he was so ill-satisfied with the bargain that he had politely compelled the Siout merchant to throw in his purse as compensation.

All this he detailed with imperturbable gravity to Hassan, adding that he and his companions always carried on their plundering expeditions on the other side of the river, so that his encampment was undisturbed and unsuspected. The band met at certain intervals and by preconcerted signals; when he joined them it was by night; and among his talents one of the most remarkable was his power of disguising himself in such a manner that the roving freebooter of the left bank and the peaceable fellah of the right were never suspected to be one and the same person.

Hassan was much amused by his adventures, and was pleased to find that in the rough breast of his lawless host there existed towards himself a feeling of gratitude and devotion that he had not expected to find: the latter even pulled a leathern purse from his girdle and proposed to repay a portion of the money advanced by Hassan for his liberation; but to this he would not consent, saying, with a smile, “Not now, my brother; I promised you that when I required it I would ask you for it. You have a family, and I have none; keep the money, therefore, until I ask you for it. Let us now talk of other things. Do you know whose are those two boats which lately passed?”

“Well do I know,” replied the Arab. “They are the dahabiahs of the new Governor of Siout, Delì Pasha.”

“True,” replied Hassan, “and I am in his service. My sister, now in your tents, is in the Pasha’s harem: she fell overboard in the storm, and they must think her drowned. As they must all be now searching, and weeping and wailing, is it possible to convey her to the dahabiah to-night, or must I go to inform them of her being safe here?”

“It is quite possible,” said Abou-Hamedi, “if she be not too feeble and tired from having been so long in the water: we have several donkeys here with saddles, and there is a good path to the ferry just above the place where the boats are made fast for the night.”

By Hassan’s desire the Arab’s wife was then called, and desired to inquire whether Amina felt herself sufficiently recovered to ride to the ferry. An affirmative answer being eagerly returned, the donkeys were soon caught and saddled, and the party ready for departure.

“I will not go with you myself,” said Abou-Hamedi aside to Hassan. “It is better that none of the Governor’s people should see my face.”

“I understand,” replied Hassan, laughing; “and if I meet you in Siout, I will take care not to know you; but as my sister is young, and unaccustomed to the presence of men, I wish you could let one of your harem go with her to the boats.”

The wife and sister of Abou-Hamedi had anticipated the wish. No service that they could render seemed to them sufficient to repay their obligation to Hassan; and the extraordinary beauty of Amina, together with the gentle gratitude which she had shown for their attentions, had so won their affections that they determined not to leave her until they had seen her safely deposited in the harem. They now appeared at the door of their tent ready for their night journey, Amina clad from head to foot in the warmest clothes they possessed, her own wet suit wrapped in a bundle and intrusted to one of the three young Arabs selected to guide the party to the ferry, while one ran on before to rouse up the ferryman and to get ready his boat. The easiest-paced donkey was assigned to Amina, and Hassan walked beside her, his arm ever ready to support her in case of the animal stumbling over the dimly-seen bushes or earth-clods that might obstruct the path.

What a delicious hour for the lovers. Amina, now warmly clad and free from all alarm, recalled to mind the brief and thrilling moments in which she had exchanged with Hassan the confession of their mutual love; and as they spoke together in Turkish, which none of the party but themselves understood, they renewed the same sweet confession in a thousand forms of tenderness, such as love alone can invent, and in which love alone finds no satiety.

“I am very jealous,” said Amina, while the little hand that trustfully reposed in his belied her words. “Do you know, Hassan, that these Arab women, both of whom are young, and one of them very comely, have done nothing but talk to me of my brother’s amiability and generosity? They say that their service, their lives, all that they have, are at your disposal. When and how did you steal away their hearts, Hassan?”

“Perhaps they told you,” he replied, “of a service which I rendered to the family, and their gratitude overrates its extent. They have kind hearts, I believe, and this is the custom of kind hearts. Look at yourself, sweet light of my eyes; you have filled my lonely heart with a joy it never knew before—you have quenched its burning thirst; from the Keswer of your love you have turned the night of my destiny into the sunshine of noon; you have bestowed on a humble _aga_, of unknown birth, who has nought but his truth and his sword, a treasure which the highest and the wealthiest in the land would be proud to solicit; and yet it is scarce an hour since you, teller of sweet untruths, said that you were my debtor.”

“Is life and all that makes it dear no debt, Hassan?” replied Amina.

“If you will have it so,” said Hassan, smiling, “you shall be my debtor, as the earth is debtor to the showery cloud, and repays it with a thousand fruits and flowers delicious to the taste. Yet, sweet light of my eyes, forget not that again our separation is at hand: at Siout you will be shut up in the harem, offers of marriage from the great and the rich will be made to your father, he will urge you to consent—how can you resist his will?”

“Hassan,” replied Amina, with a firmness and solemnity of which he had scarcely thought her capable, “I love my father, and it would grieve me to disobey him, but Allah is greater than he. I have sworn, and I repeat the vow, by your mother’s head, that neither force nor entreaty shall induce me to marry another. If destiny forbids our union, I can die.”

“Allah forbid!” said Hassan, pressing her hand to his lips. “Destiny will not be so cruel. But tell me, as it seems to me necessary to my life that I should sometimes see your blessed face, even if it be for a moment and afar off—tell me, do you know the cry of the wit-wat?”[99]

“I believe not,” said Amina, laughing. “Why do you ask?”

Turning aside his head for a moment, he imitated the cry of the bird so exactly that the most experienced fowler would have thought that a curlew had just passed by.

“Be it my task,” he said, “to find out the window of your apartment. When you hear that cry after sunset you will know that your wit-wat is watching below it for a glance from those loved eyes, or a word from that tongue which is more musical than ‘the bird of a thousand songs.’”[100]

Thus discoursing they reached the ferry, and crossed it without accident. On approaching the spot on the opposite bank where the dahabiahs had come-to for the night, they could see by the number of moving lights and figures on the bank that all the party was still astir and in unwonted agitation. One of the Arab youths who had accompanied our hero and his fair charge ran forward at full speed until he reached the boats, where he shouted at the top of his voice, “The Khanum is safe; Hassan has drawn her out of the river. They are coming.”

The news spread with the rapidity of lightning. Men and women, masters and servants, all crowded forward to greet the advancing party; and Amina, on dismounting from her donkey, found herself in the arms of her beloved Fatimeh, who had been nearly deprived of reason by the supposed loss of her young mistress, whom she loved like a daughter.

The Arab women who accompanied her, and whose kind and hospitable attentions to her wants she explained, were taken into the harem cabin and so loaded with kisses, caresses, and presents that they began to think that Amina must be a daughter of Mohammed Ali himself, that her recovery should be attended with such extraordinary and generous demonstrations; nor were the Arabs without entertained with less hospitable warmth.

As for Hassan, the eunuchs of the harem crowded round him to kiss his hand, and the tears of the faithful creatures bore testimony to the attachment which they felt towards their young mistress, whose life he had saved. Neither on board nor on the bank was there any thought of sleep that night. The tale of Amina’s miraculous escape was repeated from mouth to mouth, with a score of variations and exaggerations, by groups assembled around blazing fires on the bank, while interminable pipes and coffee beguiled the hours of night.

Hassan contrived ere long to withdraw from these wonder-loving circles to a spot where he was able to enjoy in quiet the hearty congratulations of Ahmed Aga, and one or two others of his intimate companions.

On the following morning the Arab party returned to their encampment, loaded with presents forced upon them by the generosity of the Pasha’s major-domo and the ladies of the harem, while the dahabiahs pursued their course without accident or interruption to Siout.

The official residence assigned to the Governor was a large and tolerably convenient house, which had been built not many years before by order of Ibrahim Pasha, at the northern extremity of the town. The front looked upon an open square or _meidàn_, where the troops were paraded; while the back, occupied by the harem, was surrounded by gardens in which orange, lemon, and pomegranate trees flourished in considerable abundance.

Love, though proverbially blind to danger and to consequences, is quick-sighted and quick-witted. Thus not many days had elapsed ere the cry of the wit-wat was heard under one of the windows that looked upon the garden; the casement was cautiously half-opened, and the lovers enjoyed a few moments of stolen conversation, which, for fear of being overheard, they carried on chiefly by signs and glances, or as the Arab distich has it—

“Walls have ears, and rivals are ever on the watch. Our tongues were silent; but our eyes mutually spoke, and were understood.”

Notwithstanding these precautions, it unfortunately happened that one evening a gardener, who had remained beyond the usual hours of labour, saw Hassan spring over the wall at the bottom of the garden. Impelled by curiosity, he watched our hero’s movements, heard his signal, and saw a window in the harem half-opened, partially disclosing a woman’s form, to whom Hassan addressed a few words in an impassioned undertone.

No sooner was the casement reclosed and Hassan had retired from the garden than the gardener emerged from his hiding-place, and, in the anticipation of a good reward, hastened to communicate what he had seen to Ferraj, the confidential servant of Osman Bey, the deputy-governor, with whom he, the gardener, happened to be acquainted.

Ferraj being the unworthy pander to his master’s passions in sensuality as in revenge, and who instinctively knew the hatred which he bore to Hassan, hastened to impart to his chief the information he had received. A grim smile passed over the features of Osman Bey. He had already heard of Amina’s rescue by the devoted courage of Hassan, and easily divined the object which led him to the garden. He anticipated, therefore, the double satisfaction of punishing a man whom he hated for an infraction of the sanctity of the harem, and of wounding by publicity the tenderest feelings of Delì Pasha, whom he both feared and disliked.

“Take with you,” he said, “three stout fellows and conceal yourselves in the garden after sunset, according to the directions given you by the gardener; repeat this every evening until you find this insolent harem-breaker. Have with you a large cloak and some cord; while he is looking up at the window throw the cloak over him and bind him fast, for the fellow is strong and active as a wild ox,[101] and might otherwise escape. When you have got him, bring him straightway before me.”

These instructions were only too punctually executed, and two or three evenings after, just as Hassan had reached the spot from which he gave his accustomed signal, and was watching for the opening of the casement, a large blanket was thrown over his head from behind, and, before he could extricate his limbs from its folds, he was thrown to the ground and bound hand and foot. In this condition he was carried before Osman Bey, who, in order to make his crime as public as possible, summoned Ahmed Aga and all the chief officers of Delì Pasha’s household to attend the investigation.

The news spread like wildfire throughout the palace and the neighbouring houses, so that in less than an hour the Bey’s divan was crowded with wondering spectators. Investigation was scarcely required, for the evidence was clear; the culprit had been taken in the forbidden precincts. The gardener swore to the fact of the casement having been twice opened, and that a woman appearing there had held communication with the prisoner; while the eunuchs of the harem, when interrogated, could not deny that the casement in question belonged to the Lady Amina’s private apartment.

Osman Bey, cloaking his revengeful hatred towards Hassan under a semblance of zeal for the Pasha’s honour, ordered a pair of iron manacles to be fixed on the prisoner’s wrists, and then having caused the cords and blanket in which he had been bound to be removed, ordered him to stand up and state what he had to say in his defence.

Hassan, drawing himself proudly up to his full height, and darting on Osman Bey a glance of withering scorn, replied in a loud voice, “Delì Pasha is father of the lady and Governor of the province; for him I reserve what I have to say: to you I shall give no reply.”

“Take him to the guard-house prison,” cried Osman Bey in a fury; “we will see if that insolent tongue will not find another kind of speech to-morrow. Let four soldiers with loaded pistols attend him to prison and watch at the door: if he escapes, their lives shall answer for it.”

After Hassan had been removed in obedience to this order, Osman Bey remained for some time in consultation with the commander of the troops and other officers respecting the punishment to be inflicted on Hassan. Ahmed Aga lingered among these, and in order to disarm the Vice-Governor’s suspicions of his sentiments towards the prisoner, he was loud in his condemnation of the offence, although he took no part in the discussion that arose regarding the punishment.

Osman Aga declared that the honour of the Pasha required it to be both prompt and severe, so as to deter others from invading the sanctity of his harem, and before the consultation closed he avowed his determination to have Hassan publicly beaten on the following morning in the open _meidàn_ in front of the palace, and be afterwards reconveyed to prison to await Delì Pasha’s arrival. Ahmed Aga, who well knew that all opposition to a decision based on motives of personal revenge and hatred would be fruitless, feigned acquiescence in its justice, and suggested to the Governor that it would be improper that the prisoner should be confined and punished in the dress of _khaznadâr_ to the Pasha: he proposed, therefore, that he should be authorised to see him deprived of his household dress and arms, and that he should be clad in a costume more befitting his disgraced position.

To this Osman Bey, willingly assenting, gave an order that the prison should be opened to Ahmed Aga to allow him to make the change; but he knew so well Hassan’s popularity in the Pasha’s household, that he intrusted the custody of the prisoner, both in prison and at the place of punishment, solely to his own followers and to the soldiers now under his orders as Vice-Governor.

Ahmed Aga, having provided himself with a suit of clothes such as was worn by the humbler attendants of the Pasha, proceeded in company with two of Osman Bey’s followers to the prison, and being aware that his every word and gesture would be closely watched and reported, he affected a tone of the greatest harshness in addressing the prisoner.