gracious smile. Mohammed, his arms folded on his breast, inclined
his head profoundly before the mighty man.

"See, Mohammed! The splendid shot! You come at the right moment,
Mohammed; I had already sent out a slave after you. Osman, my poor
sick son, craves a strange repast. He has seen pigeons whirling
through the air, and thinks, probably, because he knows they are not
easily to be had, that there can be nothing better in the world than
a roasted wild pigeon. Now, I know, Mohammed Ali, that no one can
use a gun better than yourself, and it would give me great
satisfaction to have you procure some of these birds for my son."

"I will do it gladly, because it is for Osman," replied Mohammed. "I
will bring them myself, within the hour. I beg you, gracious master,
to tell your son that I am glad to be able to do something for him.
I must be off after my gun."

Mohammed withdraws himself with a total absence of ceremony, not
waiting until Tschorbadji Hassan Bey dismisses him with a gracious
wave of the hand. He flies to his mother's hut, takes down his gun
from the wall, and loads it. He then climbs rapidly among the cliffs
in search of the wild-pigeons for the poor sick Osman.

In an hour, Mohammed returned with his game. As he walked along,
carrying the four birds in his band, he said to himself with a
smile: "Was it not well that I learned to deny myself a pleasure?
And here I have the recompense, the enjoyment. For it is a
recompense to be able to gratify a wish of dear good Osman; he was
always so kind to me."