Part 6

“Silence, babbler!” said the Pasha, in an angry voice; “you may speak when you are spoken to.” So saying, he darted upon the unfortunate Greek a fiery glance that almost made his heart jump into his mouth.

“Excuse me,” said the Pasha to Mr Thorpe, recovering himself immediately, as he observed Demetri steal noiselessly out of the room; “these servants, especially Smyrniotes, always tell lies, and I desired to hear the truth of this story from yourself.”

“I was in the cabin,” replied Mr Thorpe; “but my daughter was on deck the whole time, and saw all that passed; she can give your Highness a correct report.”

“If the young lady will so far favour me, I shall be obliged,” said the Viceroy.

Emily then related what had passed with the utmost accuracy. She noticed that at the pauses of her narrative the interpreter made sundry marks on a letter which he held in his hand, and also that alternate smiles and frowns followed each other on the expressive countenance of Mohammed Ali. When she had ceased speaking he thanked her, and after conversing a moment with his interpreter, proceeded to ask her a few questions connected with the letter which he held in his hand.

“Do you know whether it was by accident or design that the two boats ran against each other, and if accident, whose fault was it?”

“I think it was certainly accident, as there had been no quarrel or cause of quarrel before; whose fault it was I am not able to judge.”

“Are you sure that your crew did not attack the crew of the other boat first, with sticks or other weapons?”

“I am sure that nothing but words had passed on either side until the _kawàss_ threw the stone or brick.”

“Did you see him throw it?” said the Pasha, knitting his brows.

“I saw him certainly, and he very nearly hurt me seriously, as your Highness may see.” While thus speaking, Emily turned her cheek aside, and lifting up one of the brown curls, she showed the hurt.

“Kàhpe-oghlou pezevènk!” said the Pasha, in an angry tone, looking towards his interpreter. (The words are untranslatable to ears polite, although they may fall from a Turk fifty times in a day. They may be rendered in this case, “The infernal scoundrel!”) “One more question,” he added, “I would beg to ask the young lady. You say that the youth you call Hassan jumped alone on the deck of the other boat; how many men might there be on the deck at the time?”

“I did not count them; there might be eight or ten; some were pulling at a rope on shore.”

“And how is it they did not drive him back, and prevent him from striking the _kawàss_?”

“I cannot tell; I saw them strike at him on all sides, but it seems they had not power to stop him, for he reached the _kawàss_, broke his sword, and beat him down before jumping into the canal.”

“Ajàib!—wonderful!” said the Viceroy, turning to his dragoman. “What a tale is this; and if it be true, what dirt have these lying dogs been eating?” As he spoke, he pointed again to the letter he held in his hand.

“The Viceroy is astonished at your tale,” said the interpreter, addressing Emily; “it differs so entirely from the report sent to him by the _kawàss_.”

“I grant that it seems improbable,” said Emily, slightly colouring; “but as I own that I was very much frightened, if his Highness thinks that I have stated anything incorrectly, it is easy to know the truth. The _rais_ of our boat was close beside me all the time, and saw what passed; let the Pasha send for him and make him relate what he saw.”

When this was translated to the Viceroy, his eyes sparkled again, and he said, turning to Mr Thorpe, “The young lady is fit to be a cadi; by Allah! with your leave, it shall be as she says.”

“By all means,” replied Mr Thorpe; “let the _rais_ be brought before his Highness immediately.”

Demetri, having been sent down to the boat, returned in a few minutes with the _rais_, whose relation of the circumstances differed in no essential particular from that made by Emily.

“Mashallah!” said the Viceroy, “it is wonderful; with Mr Thorpe’s permission I should like to see and question this youth.”

Mr Thorpe having signified his acquiescence, Demetri was again sent to the boat, and soon returned, accompanied by Hassan.

During the brief absence of Demetri in search of Hassan, the Viceroy had made further inquiries concerning the latter, in reply to which Mr Thorpe informed him that the young man had been in the employment of Hadji Ismael, and was now on his way to Cairo with letters for some pasha whose name Mr Thorpe did not remember.

“What, Hadji Ismael, our good Arab merchant?” said the Viceroy.

“The same,” replied Mr Thorpe.

Here the Viceroy spoke apart to the interpreter, by whose order an attendant brought a small box, containing letters, which he placed on the divan at his Highness’s side. The interpreter, by the Viceroy’s desire, ran his eye over two or three letters from Alexandria, till he found the one of which he was in search. He read a passage from it, at which Mohammed Ali laughed and chuckled immoderately, repeating over and over again, “Aferin! aferin!” (bravo! bravo!) He then turned to Mr Thorpe, saying—

“I wonder whether this can be the same youth as the one mentioned in this letter, who threw the famous Moghrebi wrestler, Ebn-el-Ghaizi? It is here written that he was in the employment of Hadji Ismael.”

“There can be little doubt it is the same youth,” replied Mr Thorpe. “I have heard the whole story from our English servant. Indeed, it was in protecting him that Hassan got into a quarrel with the wrestler.”

“Mashallah!” said the Viceroy, “the youth deserves a reward, for that vagabond Moghrebi had beaten all the Egyptian wrestlers, and laughed at our beards.”

At this moment Hassan reached the door of the apartment, and the Viceroy having given orders that he should be admitted, he came forward, and having made the usual obeisance and touched his forehead with the skirt of the Viceroy’s pelisse, retired a few steps, and drawing himself up to his full height, awaited his prince’s commands in silence.

Mohammed Ali had been accustomed from his youth to study the characters of men from their countenance and bearing, and he now fixed upon Hassan an eye whose piercing gaze few cared to encounter; but Hassan met it with a calm and untroubled look. “Mashallah! a noble-looking youth,” muttered he to himself, after scanning the athletic yet graceful proportions of the figure before him. He then turned to his dragoman, saying—

“That youth is surely not an Arab. Of what race think you he may be?”

Before the dragoman could reply, Hassan, addressing the Viceroy, said—

“It is right that your Highness should know that I understand Turkish, lest you should say anything not intended for my ear.”[36]

“Ha! ha! I forgot that he had been in Alexandria some years,” said the Viceroy in a low tone. He then added aloud, “Hassan—for so I hear you are called—whence do you come?”

“I was bred in the tents of your friends the Oulâd-Ali,” replied the youth.

“A proud and a stubborn set of rogues they are,” muttered the Viceroy in an undertone. He then continued aloud, knitting his shaggy brows as he spoke, “You are accused of having struck and nearly killed one of my _kawàsses_. What have you to say to the charge?”

“It is true, and he deserved it,” replied Hassan.

“Deserved it!” repeated Mohammed Ali, his eye kindling with fire. “Do you dare, youngster, to laugh at my beard, and to correct my servants at your pleasure?”

“Mohammed Ali,” said the youth, with manly simplicity, “I have been taught to venerate and not to laugh at a beard silvered by time. How, then, should I not honour yours, for I have longed to see you from my childhood, having heard of your skill and courage in war and your generosity in peace? But your Highness cannot know and cannot be answerable for the insolence of all your servants. Had you been where I was when that cowardly fellow threw a stone at the head of the young lady beside you, you would not have beaten him—you would have cut his head off.”

“By the head of my father!” said the Viceroy, pleased rather than offended at the unusual boldness of Hassan’s speech—“By the head of my father! I believe the boy is right. I have heard the whole story from these strangers and from the _rais_, and though I was prepared to be angry with you, I now acquit you from blame. Where are you going to in Cairo, and what commission have you from our good merchant the Hadji?”

“I am going with a letter from him,” said Hassan, “to Delì Pasha.”

“Delì [mad], well named,” said the Viceroy. “I can guess; it is about horses. Have you the letter with you? Let me see it.”

Hassan with some hesitation withdrew the letter from a small silk bag which he carried in the folds of his girdle, and handed it to the Viceroy, who, without the slightest ceremony, opened it, and gave it to the interpreter to read to him, which he did in a tone audible only to the Viceroy himself.

“It is all right,” he said. “Give it back to Hassan, and let him take it on to Delì Pasha.”

“Pardon me,” said Hassan; “I cannot receive it so. Delì Pasha might suspect me of having opened it. Let your Highness’s secretary write in the margin that it was opened by your order, and reseal it with your seal.”

“By Allah!” said Mohammed Ali, “the youth has brains, as well as goodly limbs. Call the _khaznadâr_.”[37] When that officer entered, the Viceroy, giving him the letter, whispered a few instructions in his ear, and he left the room.

It had not escaped the Viceroy’s quick eye that Hassan had evinced some awkwardness or constraint in opening the silk bag containing the letter and replacing it in his girdle, and he said to him—

“These Frank travellers tell me that, while you were attacking the _kawàss_ on that boat, you received some blows and a stab from one of the crew. Is this so?”

“It is true,” replied Hassan; “but the blows were nothing, and the stab was of little consequence; the bleeding from it was soon stopped.”

“Does it hurt you now?” demanded the Pasha.

“A little,” he replied. “But it is not worth your Highness’s notice.”

“You are a madcap,” said the Viceroy; “and young blood thinks nothing of wounds. Raise up your left arm to your head.”

Hassan tried to obey, but the arm fell powerless at his side.

“Ha!” said the Pasha, “I knew it was so.” Then turning to his interpreter, who was also a Doctor, he continued, “Hakim Bashi, take him into another room and examine his wound, and while you are away let that Greek come in again to interpret. His tongue will not run so fast now.”

The Doctor conveyed Hassan to his own apartment, and the conversation was resumed through the medium of Demetri, who had been so thoroughly abashed by his first rebuff that he would not risk a second, but performed his interpreting duties with an accuracy which surprised himself—for he did not add more than one-third from his own head.

A quarter of an hour, then half an hour, passed away, and still neither the Doctor nor his patient returned. Several cups of coffee had been presented, and nearly an hour had elapsed ere the Hakim Bashi entered the room alone.

“Come here!” cried out the impatient Viceroy. “By Allah! your absence has been long. Where is the youth?”

“I left him lying on a divan in my room, your Highness, and he must not be moved for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Was his hurt, then, so bad?” inquired the Pasha.

“It was such,” said the Doctor, “that if your Highness had not desired me to examine and dress the wound, in a few days the amputation of his arm at the shoulder might have been necessary. I found on the top of the shoulder a large blue circle, which convinced me that there was something seriously wrong below. I was obliged to cut it open, and to cut deep, too. Then I took my probes and began to examine the bottom of the wound. As the inflammation was great, the pain must have been most acute; but, my lord, I never saw such a youth. He remained as firm and unmoved as if he had been made of wood or stone; and in the middle of the operation he said to me with a smile, ‘Hakim Bashi, Mashallah! what an eye our Prince has got.’ At last my instrument met with some hard substance, which, with some trouble, I succeeded in reaching with a forceps, and I drew it out. It proved to be the point of the dagger with which he had been stabbed, and which, encountering the bone, had broken off. Here it is.” So saying, he produced to the Viceroy about half an inch of the point of a steel dagger.

“Aferin! aferin!” (bravo! bravo!) said the Viceroy. “Well have you done, my good Hakim Bashi. The young man will recover the use of his arm now.”

“Yes, if it be the will of Allah. But he must remain at least twenty-four hours in the position in which I have placed him. I shall dress the wound once or twice, and at this hour to-morrow I can tell your Highness whether he is fit to pursue his journey.”

“What do you think?” said Mohammed Ali, addressing Mr Thorpe; “if I had two or three regiments composed of fellows like this Hassan, might I not march to—any part of the world?” Another termination was on his lips, but he checked it, and substituted the vague phrase. A slight smile might have been noticed on the face of the medical interpreter, who well knew the word that had nearly escaped his chief, although the idea was not carried into execution until many years had passed.

“I have travelled in many countries,” replied Mr Thorpe, “and can assure your Highness that men of the stature, strength, and symmetry of Hassan are rare everywhere; but your Highness knows better than I do, and has proved it to the world, that however advantageous to the individual may be the possession of these qualities, in an army there is nothing but discipline among the men, and skill in their commander, that can ensure success.”

“May your life be long!” said the Viceroy, acknowledging the compliment; “but now you must tell me what you wish to do, for you see this Hassan cannot go forward for a day or two. Will you wait for him, or will you pursue your journey, and I will have him sent on in the first boat that passes?”

“Nay,” said Mr Thorpe, “we are not so hurried but that we can wait for a day; and it would be unkind to leave him behind, as he received his wound in defending us.”

“Be it so,” replied the Pasha; “and there is another advantage in your staying. The Governor of Damietta has written me word that a Christian _kassis_[38] is coming up the river on his way to the South. They say he is a very learned man, and has been some years in these countries: perhaps you might like to join him to your party?”

“Willingly,” replied Mr Thorpe, “if he arrives in time. Meanwhile, I will take my leave, having trespassed too much on your Highness’s time.” So saying, he arose, but the Viceroy would not let him go until he had made him promise to come again on the morrow to breakfast.

The Thorpe party returned to their boat, and spent the remainder of the day in talking over the occurrences of the morning, and in discussing the character and qualities of the remarkable man whom they had seen for the first time.

A few hours later Demetri came into the cabin and stated that the Viceroy’s interpreter was without, accompanied by a stranger. Orders having been given for his immediate admission, he came in and said to Mr Thorpe—

“I have been charged by the Viceroy to present to you Mr Müller, concerning whom his Highness spoke to you; and I do it with much pleasure, as he is a friend of mine, and a most worthy person.”

The new-comer was apparently about forty-five years of age. His countenance was intelligent and benevolent, and his complexion, from long exposure to sun and weather, was tanned almost to the hue of an Arab. On his head he wore what had once been a German cap, but which, from the folds of grey serge wrapped around it, might almost pass for a turban; and his beard, which was bushy and slightly grizzled, fell nearly half-way to his waist. His outer dress was composed of a long robe or gaberdine of dark-grey cloth, with loose sleeves, and confined at the waist by a leathern girdle, from which depended a bag, made from the skin of an antelope, and containing all the sundries which the good missionary most frequently required in his long excursions in the forest and desert. His sandals were of undressed hide, and he had made them himself; and he carried in his hand a stout staff which he had brought from the Abyssinian woods, and which had been his constant companion in many a remote peregrination.

The two visitors remained some time, and the conversation turned on Egypt and the wilder regions to the southward, with all of which Müller seemed so familiar, and described them with so much truthful simplicity, that the Thorpe party were delighted with him.

On the following day they returned to breakfast with the Pasha, and were glad to learn that Hassan had passed a quiet night, and that the inflammation had so far subsided that he might go on board without risk.

“I have no fear,” said the medical interpreter, “of any bad consequences now that you have agreed on going with Müller; he has had so much experience that he is half a Doctor himself: indeed,” he added, smiling, “I doubt whether he has not more skill than many who hold the diploma.”

The breakfast passed as agreeably as that of the preceding day, and after it Hassan was summoned into the Pasha’s presence. He came in with his left arm in a sling. His Highness spoke kindly to him, and after receiving the thanks of the youth for the attention shown to him by the interpreter, the latter was desired by the chief to reseal and restore to Hassan the letter from the merchant to Delì Pasha, adding in the margin that it had been opened by himself, and, in conclusion, he whispered a few words in his ear, to which the interpreter only replied by the customary “On my head be it.”

A few minutes sufficed to execute this order, and when the interpreter returned the letter to Hassan, he at the same time presented another to Mr Thorpe, informing him that it contained an order to the Kiahya Pasha[39] to furnish his party with an escort to the Pyramids, and a guard while remaining there. His Highness also said that on their return from Upper Egypt he should probably be at Shoobra,[40] and he hoped they would come to see him there.

Mr Thorpe having duly expressed his thanks for his Highness’s hospitality and kindness, now rose to take his departure, and Hassan came forward and touched his forehead with the skirt of the Viceroy’s pelisse; Mohammed Ali looked at him with a smile, and said—

“Good fortune attend you, Hassan—a mad follower going to join a mad lord—but you are a good lad, and I am pleased with you.”

They all retired to their boat, Hassan taking an opportunity before they left to thank the medical interpreter for the service he had rendered him in restoring him the use of his arm.

Our party pursued their way merrily towards Cairo, Mr Thorpe’s impatience to see his beloved pyramids becoming every hour more uncontrollable.

Müller’s _canjah_[41] kept company with them, and it had been agreed before they started that he should pass the day on board the large boat and at night sleep on his own; by this means he was enabled every day to dress Hassan’s shoulder according to the advice given him by the medical interpreter.

The voyage was slow, and unaccompanied by incidents of interest to any excepting our friend Demetri, who daily landed at some village to purchase milk, fowls, and a lamb for the party; and as he only put them down in his account at one hundred per cent over the cost price, Mrs Thorpe, instead of complaining of the charges, only expressed her wonder at the cheapness of provisions. We shall not be surprised at the good lady’s satisfaction when we remember that at the period of which we write one hundred eggs were bought for a piastre,[42] a couple of fowls for the same amount, and a sheep for five piastres.

We may here insert a few leaves from Emily’s journal:—

“We have found the Missionary Müller a great addition to our party; he is the best, and the queerest, and the cleverest creature I ever beheld; he really seems to me to know everything. He has travelled a great deal in Nubia and the adjoining regions, and speaks several of those barbarous languages. His most constant companion on our boat is Hassan. I could not resist asking him the other day, after a conversation which seemed to me to have lasted above an hour, what he could find to interest him so much in Hassan’s conversation, and whether it was about fighting and hunting.

“‘No,’ he replied, with a good-humoured smile, ‘it was about religion.’

“‘Religion!’ I exclaimed in astonishment; ‘I can understand that he should listen to you on such a subject, but I observed that he spoke more and more vehemently than you did yourself.’

“‘True, lady; but I could not blame him, for I attacked, and he defended, his faith. I had before observed in him so much unselfishness, modesty, and such a love of truth that I thought it my duty to try if I might not lead him to the way of truth where we know it to be. With him, as with all true Mussulmans, it is next to impossible. They have got the one great undeniable truth—the Unity of God—so indelibly stamped upon their conviction that any attempt to make them understand, or even consider, the doctrine of the Trinity is attended with such difficulties as amount almost to an impossibility! The words with which Hassan closed our conversation were these: “There is no God but Allah; the days of fighting the Mushrekin and planting the true faith with the sword are gone—now we can only pity them.”’

“‘Who are the Mushrekin?’ I inquired.

“‘The term signifies,’ he replied, ‘those who assign a partner; and it is applied especially to Christians, who, in the estimation of the Moslem, assign in their doctrine of the Trinity two other persons or spirits as partners with the Creator.’

“‘Whence could Hassan,’ I asked, ‘learn to discuss such subjects; has he any learning?’

“‘He has no learning,’ replied Müller; ‘but he knows his Koran well, and reads it constantly. He knows not that all which is most valuable in its moral precepts was taken from our Bible; but his heart is simple, his faith fixed, and his will strong and determined. There is hardly a tribe in the deserts of Southern Africa, or in the islands of the Southern Ocean, where a missionary may not hope for some reward for his labours, but to convert an honest and believing Mussulman is a task almost hopeless.’

“The following day we continued our course up the Nile, passing by a number of villages and palm-groves, and towards evening I resumed my favourite seat on the upper deck, to see the beautiful Egyptian sunset; the Missionary Müller was by me, and interested me much by descriptions of the Soudan. Hassan was quite in the stern of the boat, reciting or chanting in a low voice. I asked Müller if he knew what the young man was repeating, but he could not catch the words, and said, “It is doubtless some old Arab legend.” I felt a great desire to hear a recitation of this kind, and I inquired of the missionary whether he could prevail upon Hassan to repeat it to us.

“He got up and made the request. I could see that some hesitation and difficulties arose; but they were soon overcome, and Müller returned, bringing with him Hassan, who sat down in his old place between me and the _rais_. Müller said to me—

“‘Hassan desires the young lady to be informed that he is not a _ràwi_ [a teller of stories], but that he knows some old Arab legends. If it pleases her, he will tell the tale of Rabîah. It is,’ added Müller, ‘a legend of great antiquity, and its scene is laid in Arabia.’

“I told him it would give me great pleasure to hear it, so Hassan commenced.