"How splendid he looks!" murmured the pale boy. "That is health,
father, and life. He is just my age, and only look at me!"

The tschorbadji suppressed a sigh, and smiled gently as he looked at
his son. "You are ill, my Osman. Allah will grant you speedy
recovery, and then you will become strong and healthy like Mohammed
Ali.--Well!" he cried to the boy who had stood still at some
distance with his birds in his hand--"well, I see you have kept your
word, and brought my son the wild-pigeons."

"I have, and am glad that I was able to do so." replied Mohammed, as
he now came nearer in obedience to the bey's request, and greeted
the pale boy with a joyous smile.

"Give me your hand, Mohammed," said the young boy, who had partially
risen from his cushions, and was supporting himself on his elbow.
Timidly, Mohammed took the boy's pale, thin hand in his own.

"Tell me, Mohammed, why do you not come to see me oftener? You know
how glad I always am to see you."

"Master, he did not visit you, because it does not become the poor
to intrude upon the rich and noble," replied Mohammed, his eyes
fixed with an anxious expression on Osman's pale face.

"Rich and noble!" repeated Osman, with a sigh. "You are rich,
Mohammed, for you are healthy. You are noble, Mohammed; for the
inhabitants of the sea and of the air must obey you. You have power,
and that is nobility."