should think," said Cousrouf Pacha, directing a fierce glance at
Mohammed, who still stood erect beside him.

"Why should your excellency think so?" asked he in sharp, almost
threatening tones. "Why is it too great an honor that the son of the
tschorbadji calls me his friend? Has it not occurred that
aristocratic gentlemen have elevated to an equality with themselves,
and made friends even of, slaves, and purchased boys? I remember
hearing the scha-er tell of a Circassian slave whom the grand-
admiral, at Stamboul, purchased, and subsequently called his friend.
He was not ashamed of him, although the lad called Cousrouf was,
after all, only a slave."

"In the name of Allah, I pray you, be still!" cried the tschorbadji,
looking anxiously at Mohammed.

"And why should he be still?" asked Cousrouf, in cold, cutting
tones. "He is merely telling a story learned from the scha-er. You
know, tschorbadji, it is customary to pay story-tellers, and give
them a piaster.--Here, take your pay, you little scha-er."

The pacha drew from his silken purse, filled with gold-pieces, a
ducat, and threw it at the boy's feet.

Mohammed uttered a cry of rage, and took up the gold-piece as though
he intended to throw it in the pacha's face. But Osman held his
hand, and begged him in a low voice to be composed.

Mohammed struggled to compose himself. His face was pale, his lips
trembled, and his eyes gleamed with wrath and hatred, as he glanced