"I will go to him; I know he loves me. He will not laugh when he
sees that I have been weeping."

No, Osman did not laugh. When he saw his friend coming, he advanced
to meet him with extended arms, and they embraced each other
tenderly, tears standing in the eyes of both.

All was still; nothing could be heard but the murmur of the sea, and
the rustling of the wind.

The merchant, who had at first stood in silence beside the two, now
walked noiselessly away.

They love each other, and what they have to say, no one else should
hear.

Mohammed stands up and dries his eyes; he wishes to be composed.
Osman holds out his hand:

"Your mother is dead, but she survives in your friends, and your
mother and your friend now extend the hand to you. Mohammed, come
with me to my house, for my house is yours, too. I will not have you
remain alone; you must come with me."

Mohammed shook his head gravely. "It cannot be--I will not become a
slave!"

"Come, out of love for me. Not as my slave, but as my friend. Oh, I
am so lonely, and you are the only one who loves, and can console,
poor, sickly Osman."