haughty gentleman might think that respect for him made you run
away, as the lizard flees before the footstep of man. Stay!"

"You are right," said Mohammed, "I shall stay."

He straightened himself up, threw his head back proudly, folded his
arms on his breast, and stood beside his friend's couch, gazing
composedly at the two gentlemen who were advancing toward them,
followed by a number of slaves.

As they came nearer, the tschorbadji stepped hastily forward to
greet his son with loving, tender words. Mohammed inclined his head
with profound reverence before the father of his beloved friend. He
then raised his head again, and firmly met the glance of the haughty
Cousrouf Pacha, without any manifestation of deference whatever. The
latter stepped forward, and greeted Osman with friendly words; he
then turned, and fixed his dark-gray eyes on the young man who stood
beside him, awaiting his deferential salutation.

But Mohammed did not salute him. He still stood erect, his arms
folded on his breast, beside his friend's couch.

The pacha slowly turned to the governor. "Tell me, tschorbadji, who
is this person? Your slave, is he not?"

"No," cried Osman, rising partially from his couch, and anticipating
his father's reply. "No, your excellency, he is not our slave, but
my friend, my beloved friend, Mohammed Ali."

"Your friend! A great honor for such a lad, too great an honor, I