The tschorbadji was displeased with these humble words of his son,
and his brow became clouded.

"I think you should be content with your riches and nobility, my
son," said he. "Come, hand me the pigeons, Mohammed."

He took the beautifully feathered birds from Mohammed's hand, looked
at them, and let their feathers play in the sun light. "Yes, they
are still warm; so the world goes. An hour since they disported
themselves in life's sunshine. The child of man comes, sends a few
shot through their bodies, and their glory is at an end. But, I
thank you, Mohammed, for having so quickly complied with our wish.
Here is your reward." He took two gold-pieces from his purse and
handed them to the boy in his outstretched hand.

Mohammed did not take them. He drew back at the words of the
governor, a deep color suffusing itself over his cheeks.

Osman perceived this, and motioned to him to come nearer to his
couch. "Mohammed," said he, "father forgot to add for what purpose
he wished to give you the money. Not for yourself. I know that your
procuring these pigeons for me was an act of friendship. You have
always been friendly to me, and I shall never forget what you did
for me the other day."

"What was it?" asked the tschorbadji, with surprise.

"You know nothing of it, father. I did not mention it to you because
I feared it might make you angry," replied Osman, gently. "I had had