"Yes, that is what I intended to say, my friend, and this one thing
you must still learn: to use the pen and write down your thoughts on
paper."

"I cannot", cried Mohammed, impatiently; "my hands are too rough.
The oar and the gun have made my fingers so stiff that I cannot use
the pen."

"Then let it be so. I will torment you about it no longer." said
Osman, with a sigh. "You are my head and I am your hand. You think
for me, and I shall write for you. So shall it be throughout our
entire lives, for together we two must remain, and nothing can
separate us. Is it not so, my friend? Say it, and say it often, that
nothing can separate us. For you must know that if fate should tear
you from me it would kill me, and that you cannot intend: therefore,
we shall ever remain together, shall we not?"

"We shall ever remain together," said Mohammed. "That is Osman,
consider well what you are saying, for you are nearly eighteen years
old."

"As you are," responded Osman, smiling.

"Only with this difference, that your father will give you with your
eighteenth year, a beautiful aristocratic lady to wife, and
establish a harem for you; while Mohammed Ali will never have either
a sweetheart or a harem, but will always remain alone and unwedded."

"Who knows?" replied Osman, laughing. "Those who assure us they will
never love, says the poet, are the one's that fall in love soonest.