him with fans made of peacock-feathers; others, on their knees, fill
his chibouque, while he reclines on his cushions, smoking and
dreamily gazing at the beautifully-attired female slaves who dance
before him."

"And he," said Mohammed, "he, the vain man, imagines that they dance
and remain in his harem out of love for him!

"I suppose they make him think so. They say a woman's lips make a
lie sweet, and that her face always wears a mask! And yet" he
continued, looking dreamily toward the harem, "I must tell you,
Mohammed, I sometimes think I should be happy, too, and less
tormented with ennui, if one of these houris of paradise sat at my
side, chastely veiled, regarding me lovingly and I could look
through the white veil at the smile on her lips. Ah, Mohammed, we,
who are not made to become heroes, feel an irresistible longing
after love, and the sweet delight of being loved. You, of course,
cannot understand this."

"No, I cannot," cried Mohammed, with a contemptuous smile. "I shall
never bow my head beneath the yoke of female slaves, with their
beautiful almond-shaped eyes and purple lips. I shall consider all
women as playthings, with the exception of my mother," said he,
bowing his head with profound reverence. "Allah forgive me for
speaking ill of women, for our mothers are women, Osman! Forgive me
my pride and folly. I speak only of the light-footed slaves, with
the deceiving smile and the false eyes."

"And who knows,' said Osman, smiling, "but that my Mohammed, who
speaks of these fetters so derisively, may not some day be