Part 18

Hassan, to whom his secret motives were unknown, was more hurt at the conduct of his former friend than he could have been by any indignity inflicted on him by the spite of Osman Bey. Had he known Latin and history, he might have ejaculated, “_Et tu, Brute!_” but as it was, he observed a proud and haughty silence while delivering over his _khaznadâr_ dress, together with his shawl-girdle, purse, and dagger, of all of which Ahmed Aga took possession. Scanning with a rapid glance the walls and dimensions of the prison, Ahmed Aga noticed that it was lighted only by one small aperture, so high that escape was impossible; and he had already heard the orders given to the sentries who paced before the door with loaded pistols, and who knew that their lives were made answerable for the prisoner’s safety.

“Give him bread and water,” said he to the guards, “and let him have a light burning in the cell; it may be useful if you want to look in at any hour before morning to see what he is doing. He is a desperate fellow; beware, my men, that you do not let him escape.”

“You may trust us for that,” they replied gruffly, “as we have no wish to take his place or share his punishment.”

Poor Hassan made his solitary bread-and-water meal with the proud stoicism of a Bedouin, though his heart bled at the apparently hopeless issue of his love and the treacherous ingratitude of Ahmed Aga.

The early hours of the night had passed, and he was just about to lose a sense of his troubles and dangers in sleep, when he was aroused by seeing something drop near his feet, which had evidently been thrown in at the aperture in the wall. Reaching out his manacled hand, he found it to be a lump of clay, to which was attached a note containing a small file and the following words:—

“LIGHT OF MY EYES, BELOVED FRIEND,—Your condition is very perilous; all I could do I have done. Osman Aga swears you shall be publicly beaten to-morrow, and he will keep his oath. The place will be the wooden pillar in the middle of the _meidàn_; if you try to escape before you reach it you will be killed, according to his orders. The cords by which they tie you will be rotten; with the file you can cut nearly through one of the manacles near the wrist, where the cut will not be seen, and you may then break them with a sudden effort. Immediately in front of the post will sit the Bey, and behind him you will see a large clump of date-trees, at the back of which is a ruined sheik’s tomb, where you will find your clothes, your arms, and your horse ready saddled; if you have courage and fortune to reach that spot you are safe. You must turn northward behind the date-trees, and I will direct the pursuit westwards toward the desert. Allah bless you. I have been obliged to seem your enemy to obtain the means of serving you, but Hassan knows the truth of this heart and hand.”

“I should have known and trusted,” said Hassan, pacing up and down his cell in agitation; “but I doubted thee, Ahmed, and am unworthy of thy friendship.”

After giving himself up awhile to these thoughts, he reverted to the letter. “Beaten!” he said, while he crushed the paper in his gyved hand. “I, Hassan, the Child of the Pyramid, whose lance has emptied the saddles of warriors; I, the betrothed of Amina, to be exposed in the _meidàn_ and beaten like a thief or a slave—by Allah! rather will I die ten thousand deaths.” He cast his eye scornfully down on the rusty manacles that fettered his wrists. “Fools,” said he, “to think that the hands of Hassan could be held by brittle toys like these! The intention of Ahmed in sending me the file was friendly, and it may yet be needed, but not now. The slaves might examine these chains before leading me out, and my escape be thus rendered impossible.”

So saying, he hid the file in the folds of a linen girdle that supported his _serwal_ (or drawers), and having carefully reperused Ahmed’s letter so as to fix it firmly in his memory, he tore it piecemeal and buried it in the dust in a corner of his cell, so that in case he should fall in his attempted escape there might not be found anything to compromise his friend.

Having made these preparations and recited his evening prayer, he lay down and slept soundly till he was awakened by the drawing of the bolts of the prison-door, and the entrance of half-a-dozen armed men appointed to conduct him to the place of punishment.

In obedience to their orders, before leaving the prison they examined the manacles, which Hassan held up to their inspection with an air of good-humoured confidence, which, together with his noble and distinguished mien, impressed the rough fellows in his favour.

They were strangers to him personally, but they thought it a pity that so handsome a youth should be subjected to a degrading punishment for speaking a few words in the garden beneath the window of a Khanum whose life he had saved only a few days before. However, they knew Osman Bey’s character, and dared not disobey his orders, so they marched their prisoner to the appointed spot, where a man stood ready to tie his hands to the post mentioned in Ahmed’s letter.

While performing this office, his back being turned to the Bey, a single wink of the eye sufficed to show to Hassan that he was a friend, and that the cord was either half-cut or rotten. Osman Bey sat on a cushioned carpet smoking his chibouq, some of the officers of his household standing on either side, while behind him Hassan recognised many friendly faces of Delì Pasha’s attendants, on which sympathy and indignation were legibly written: beyond these again he noticed the palm-grove, where his horse and liberty awaited him if he could escape from stab or bullet on the way. The attempt seemed desperate; yet, although Hassan had resolved to risk it, none could read any agitation or emotion in that calm, proud eye, which, after surveying the surrounding crowd, rested its scornful glance on the Vice-Governor.

“Osman Bey,” said Hassan in a loud, firm voice that was heard by all present, “I warn you to desist from this unjust punishment. I have appealed to Delì Pasha; it is he alone who should judge his own _khaznadâr_.”

“Dog!” replied Osman Bey, “dost thou teach me my duties and my powers? Am I not Governor till Delì Pasha arrives; and shall I not punish a scoundrel who dares to invade his harem? I will have thy back beaten till thou canst not speak, and I will leave thy feet for Delì Pasha to beat till thou canst not stand. Slaves,” he continued, addressing two men armed with sticks who had silently taken their places on each side of the prisoner, “strike! and if you do not lay it soundly on, by my head you shall taste the stick yourselves.”

Even as he ceased speaking the fall of a heavy blow on Hassan’s back sounded over the _meidàn_, and an involuntary groan burst from many of his former comrades in the Pasha’s household. Uttering the single word “Allah!” in a voice of thunder, Hassan burst the cord that bound his hands to the post, and dashing them apart with the full power of his gigantic strength, the rusted manacles snapped like whipcord: a single bound brought him to the side of the astonished Bey, who had scarcely time to take the pipe from his mouth ere he received from the iron chain still hanging from Hassan’s right hand a blow which broke his nose and deluged his face in blood. Without turning even to give him a look, Hassan dashed impetuously forward, brandishing a sword that he had snatched from the Bey’s nearest attendant. Some made way for him apparently paralysed by fear or surprise, some doubtless from secret friendship, so that, here and there parrying a random cut or thrust, he succeeded in gaining the palm-grove.

Such was Hassan’s extraordinary fleetness of foot that he had distanced all pursuers when the Bey, rising from the ground and holding a handkerchief to his bleeding face, roared aloud in fury to his _kawàsses_ and Bashi-Bazouks to mount in pursuit. “A hundred purses to any one who takes him dead or alive!”

It may well be believed that a reward of such unheard of magnitude sent many of the greedy soldiers to their saddles with all possible speed.

Hassan meanwhile sped his way to the sheik’s tomb, beneath which he found a friendly young Mameluke of the Pasha’s mounted and holding Shèitan by the bridle.

“Quick, quick!” said the youth; “here is your belt and pistols—they are primed and loaded; here your sword and dagger; in these small bags, firmly tied to the saddle, are your clothes and purse. Away, away to the right, round these palms; I will gallop off to the left and shout as if in pursuit.”

With a grasp of the hand, and without exchanging another word, Hassan fastened his arms in his girdle, and vaulting into the saddle, went off at full speed; while the young Mameluke galloped off in the opposite direction, shouting aloud, and followed, as he expected, by the first horsemen who came up, and who, supposing him to be in sight of the fugitive, hastened in pursuit, hoping to snatch from him the coveted prize of one hundred purses.

One of the mounted _kawàsses_ only, a powerful fellow, and greedy, like the rest, to secure the promised reward, had heard the sound of Shèitan’s retreating hoofs, and followed in the right direction; nor was it long ere, leaving the palm-grove and entering on the adjoining open fields which bordered the desert, he caught a view of Hassan in full flight before him. Well knowing that he could trust, if necessary, to his horse’s speed, Hassan did not wish to distress him at the commencement of a chase the length of which was uncertain. He contented himself therefore with going on at a moderate hand-gallop, which soon allowed the impatient _kawàss_ to gain on him. Hassan perceiving, as he came nearer, that the man was armed like himself with sword and pistols, drew one of the latter from his belt and quietly awaited his adversary’s approach.

The _kawàss_, thirsting for the hundred purses, and trusting to his skill in the use of his weapon, galloped by our hero, discharging his pistol as he passed. The ball whizzed by Hassan’s head, but missed its mark; and, driving the stirrup into Shèitan’s flanks, he brought him quickly within range of his opponent, when he fired with so true an aim that the _kawàss_ fell dead at the first shot.

“Fool!” said Hassan; “what harm had I done you that you must strive to take me?”

He dismounted, and, seeing that no other pursuers were in sight, dressed himself in the _kawàss’s_ clothes, and throwing the body into an adjoining ditch, added a second brace of pistols to his own means of defence, and led off his late opponent’s horse, which he resolved to retain or turn loose as circumstances might render it advisable.

A few days after these events Delì Pasha, who had been released from his attendance on the Viceroy, and had performed the voyage up the Nile in a light Government _canjah_, arrived at Siout, where he learnt the various “moving incidents” that had occurred in his household: the imminent peril of his favourite child, rescued by the devoted courage of Hassan, her name become the subject of scandal in connection with that of her deliverer, and the disgraceful punishment awarded to his _khaznadâr_ by Osman Bey, who, as Delì Pasha well knew, had gratified his own revengeful hatred under a semblance of zeal for the honour of his chief.

All these things combined to rouse the feelings of the choleric old soldier to the highest pitch of excitement. He was angry with Hassan, angry with his daughter, angry with Osman Bey, and angry with Destiny, which had brought all these troubles on his old age. His attendants saw the cloud settled on his brow, and waited in silent apprehension to see when and how the storm would burst.

At last it fell, as is too often the case in this world of injustice, on the feeblest and most innocent head. Amina alone, of all the objects of his wrath, was under his roof and entirely in his power; she had heard from Fatimeh Khanum and the eunuchs the indications of her father’s gloomy state of mind, and as on arriving he had neither come to see her nor sent her any message of affection, she dreaded the first interview. When, after the lapse of some days, he visited her apartment and ordered all the attendants to retire, she advanced to meet him, and observing no welcome sign of parental embrace, she kissed the hem of his robe and sat down in silence at his feet.

Notwithstanding all his stoic and stern resolves, the feelings that struggled for the mastery in his breast betrayed themselves; and as he contemplated her surpassing loveliness, and the touching and subdued melancholy by which it was shaded, he could not forbear the reflection that, had it not been for the courageous devotion of Hassan, that face and form, which he had so often caressed with all a father’s love, would now be sleeping cold and lifeless in the muddy bed of the Nile.

“Better so than disgraced and dishonoured,” said he to himself, rousing his own angrier passions, and giving them vent in a volume of reproaches directed against herself and her lover. For a long time she bore them in silence and in tears; but when at length he reproached her with giving her affection to a nameless adventurer, and said that he would rather see her dead than united to one who had ungratefully brought dishonour on his house, she started to her feet, and while the eyes so lately bathed in tears now flashed with the fire of indignation, she said—

“Father, you shall have your wish. Death has no terror for me, and I would meet it in any hour and in any shape rather than renounce a faith that I have plighted in the sight of Allah. Cruel and unjust father, how dare you tax with ingratitude one who risked his own life to save that of your child? Father, neither your anger nor your power can arrest the decrees of destiny. Was it Hassan’s fault or was it mine that on that dark and stormy night I was cast into the waves of the Nile? He heard a faint cry, and though he knew not who uttered it, he plunged into those troubled waters and reached me just as I was about to sink from cold and exhaustion. Cheering and sustaining me, he brought me to the shore. In the very jaws of death I vowed to devote to him the life that he had saved; he stripped off his own cloak to shield me from the cold; he bore me to the friendly Arab tents, and his heart beat against my heart as I rested in his arms. He had seen my face uncovered, and we mutually swore to love each other faithfully until separated by that death from which we had just escaped. Cruel father, do you think that after this any other man would wish or dare to wed your daughter? In the sight of Allah, Hassan is my husband. The cruelty of man or Fate may doom me never to see him again; but I warn you, father, that I am Delì Pasha’s own daughter, and if you compel me to become the bride of another, the bridal bed shall be the grave of one or both.”

The Pasha gazed with mingled awe and astonishment on the flashing eyes and dilated figure of his transformed Amina as she uttered these words; while one of her hands rested on her girdle, as if seeking the hilt of that dagger to which her closing sentence had so plainly alluded.

“Amina,” he said in a voice rendered tremulous by emotion, “you are right; it has been the work of destiny. I meant not to be cruel to you or unjust to Hassan. Come to my arms.”

Who has not experienced the pleasure of seeing a dusky summer cloud, which lately obscured the sun and sent forth the lightning’s flash and the thunder’s growl, suddenly dissolve and pass away in gentle rain, while the sun resumes its empire over the sky, and the shower-spangled leaves and herbs and flowers exhale the grateful incense of their odorous breath?

Such, only so much more lovely as moral is superior to natural beauty, was the change wrought in Amina by a word of parental love. Throwing herself into his arms with a wild cry of irrepressible joy, she looked up in his face, and pressing his hand fondly to her lips, said—

“Father, dear father, I fear that my words have pained you; tell me that you forgive me. I can bear anything but to hear him ill-spoken of; then my heart jumps to my mouth, and my tongue knows no restraint; but now I am your own little Amina again. Kiss me, and love me, dear father, and, Inshallah! I will never do anything to offend you.”

Delì Pasha could not trust himself to speak, but he folded her to his heart in a silence more eloquent than words, and the reconciliation between father and daughter was complete.

Often afterwards, when alone together, they spoke of Hassan, and wondered what had become of him, till at length reports reached them which, although they threw a light upon his fate, filled them with grief and dismay.

In order to explain these more fully we must resume the thread of our narrative at the point where we left our hero clad in the dress of the _kawàss_ whom he had despoiled, and journeying northward along the border of the desert, leading his spare horse by the bridle.

He had travelled some four or five hours at a round pace without halting, when he met half-a-dozen wild-looking Bedouin Arabs, well-mounted and armed with lance and sword. Forgetting at the moment that the dress which he wore might not find favour in the eyes of these children of the desert, he rode forward to meet them, when one who seemed their leader, after conversing for a few moments with his companions, called aloud to him—

“Halt, you _kawàss_, servant of some grasping Turk; if you would have us spare your life, dismount and give us up those two horses.”

“I am no _kawàss_,” replied Hassan, addressing the surprised Arabs in the deep-toned guttural accents of a Bedouin, “but a son of the desert like yourselves. ’Tis but a few hours since a _kawàss_ attacked me, and I killed him and took his horse. If you wish to fight, the same arms that killed him are ready for you. If you desire peace, Bismillah! I am your friend.”

While speaking, he deliberately drew a pistol from his girdle and brought round the hilt of his sword ready for his hand. The Bedouins were completely puzzled by his appearance and language; his powerful figure, noble mien, and the perfect coolness with which he challenged six men to combat, compelled their involuntary admiration, while his dress denoted hostility to their predatory band, and his horses excited their cupidity.

While they were holding a brief consultation as to the course which they should pursue, another Arab belonging to their party, who had followed them at some distance, came up: he was a broad-shouldered, stout fellow, with a black patch covering one-half of his face, and from the eagerness with which they crowded round him it was evident that his voice was not without weight among them.

“Let me see this _kawàss_ who pretends to be a Bedouin,” said he, pushing his way through them; “I will soon tell you whether he be lion or jackal.” So saying, he advanced to within a few yards of our hero.

“Mashallah! Mashallah!” exclaimed the new-comer; and, to the astonishment of his comrades, he jumped off his horse, and running up to Hassan, kissed his hand, crying aloud, “Ya sidi, ya sidi,—My master, my master,—do you not know your faithful Abou-Hamedi?”

It was, indeed, no less a personage than our old friend the Damanhouri whom Hassan had thus unexpectedly encountered, and who was now out upon a marauding expedition with a fragment of the lawless and numerous band of which he was a member.

“The black patch could not disguise Abou-Hamedi from the eyes of a friend,” replied Hassan, cordially returning his greeting. In a few minutes hasty salutations and mutual inquiries had passed, and Hassan found himself on his way to the Bedouin encampment, where he was invited to sup and pass the night.

Abou-Hamedi took the bridle of the led horse, and treated our hero with such evident deference that the other Arabs unconsciously adopted a similar manner towards him, and he entered their encampment rather with the air of its chieftain than of a homeless fugitive.

The band consisted of forty-five or fifty men, who were sitting in a circle round a large fire, at which a couple of black slaves were roasting several sheep and baking Arab bread on the cinders. The horses were picketed in a semicircle at the back of the party, and other black slaves were bringing them their evening supply of forage. Tents there were none, these hardy sons of the desert contenting themselves with a blanket for a bed and the open sky for a canopy.

Hassan saw at a glance that more than half of the band were Arabs from the West—rough, powerful fellows, who, having come across the Great Desert to perform the pilgrimage to Mecca, had on their return been attracted by the “fleshpots of Egypt,” and had remained behind to do a little business in the plundering line, while the rest of their caravan had continued its course to the desert borders of Tripoli and Tunis. The residue of the party was composed of Arabs who were either outlawed for some offence against the Egyptian Government or had been compelled to fly from some Bedouin tribe to avoid retaliation for a deed of blood.

Hassan had no sooner taken his seat among them than he was expected and requested to relate the circumstances which had brought him among them in the dress of a Turkish _kawàss_, and with iron manacles attached to each wrist. This he did in a simple and unpretending manner, which would have carried conviction with it even without the confirmatory evidence of the manacle chain which still hung from his right hand.

The Bedouins listened with grave attention and interest to his tale, and at the end of it Abou-Hamedi drew near to his side, and asking him for the file which the forethought of Ahmed had provided, set about the task of delivering our hero from bracelets which were neither convenient nor ornamental. This was a more tedious task than it appeared; and when at length they were removed, they were passed from hand to hand, the Arabs casting their eyes from the broken chain to the powerful limbs which it had failed to fetter, and paying that involuntary tribute to lofty stature and manly beauty which these qualities command still more in savage than in civilised life.

No sooner was Hassan relieved from his gyves than he rose up and went to see that his faithful Shèitan was duly cleaned and fed. He found a grinning negro belonging to Abou-Hamedi already employed on this service, whose goodwill he further stimulated by a smile of encouragement and a five-piastre piece slipped into his palm. The horse taken from the _kawàss_ likewise received his due allowance, and both it and Shèitan were provided with a coarse rug to protect them against the cold of approaching night.

While Hassan was thus engaged, and in the subsequent recital of his sunset prayers, which, like a true Mussulman, he never omitted in any presence or under any circumstances, Abou-Hamedi was eloquently haranguing the listening Arabs concerning his character and qualities. He related to them how he himself owed his life and liberty to Hassan’s youthful generosity; and after extolling in the highest terms his deliverer’s daring courage and aptitude for command, he proposed that the band should invite him to become their leader.