"He is right, tschorbadji," said he, bowing his head with great
dignity. "Yes, he is right! If the rabble are rebellious, let the
heads of some of them fall! Order and law must reign! Many-headed is
the hydra, and it is no great misfortune if a few of their brawling
heads are hewn off!"

"Allah is great! His will be done," said the tschorbadji. "I do not
wish the court-yard of my dwelling to be stained with blood. I do
not wish to rule harshly and unmercifully in the evening of my life,
after governing my people so many years by mild and gentle rule."

"There you are wrong," said Cousrouf Pacha; "mildness and gentleness
do not become a ruler; only by severity and an unbending will can he
exalt himself to power, and, even when he reaches the goal, he must
trust to arms, if he is to maintain himself."

"And if with sword and dagger he reaches the throne," said Osman,
looking gently and reproachfully at the proud pacha, "may he then
hope to hear music and hymns of praise, or must he not then only
expect to hear cries of anguish uttered by those over whose heads he
strode to power? He could not then expect to see a fair and blooming
land, but a land full of corpses and blood! No, no, Cousrouf Pacha!
I desire not to reach that height. I will rather dwell in the
valleys-in the shadow of the cliffs on the sea shore-and gather
shells, and revel in the gladness and delight of a modest and quiet
existence."

"And you, Mohammed," said the pacha, smiling scornfully, "what is
your ambition? Will you gather shells upon the sea-shore with Osman,