"I thank you, Mohammed, and beg you to come to-morrow ready to
relate to me.--Give me the money, father," said he, addressing his
father, with a gentle smile. "I will give it to Mohammed for the
scha-er."

He took the money, and Mohammed willingly accepted it from him, and
thanked him.

"I will go to the scha-er at once, for this is his hour, I believe."

He bowed hastily and slightly before the tschorbadji, but profoundly
and reverentially before the poor pale boy, and rapidly walked back
toward the gate, thinking not of the beautiful flowers that
surrounded him, rejoicing only at being able to do something for
Osman Bey, and rejoicing, too, at the prospect of listening to the
scha-er.

It was just the hour at which the new scha-er, the rival of old
Mehsed, began to relate his stories in the hall. With an earnest,
respectful air, the men and boys sat around in the wide circle on
their mats, and listened, slowly moving their bodies to and fro, to
what the scha-er was relating.

Mohammed noiselessly entered the circle, and seating himself as
close as he could in front of the scha-er, listened in breathless
attention to the loud, resonant voice that told of the glories of
the past

"I have not come to tell you of the fatherland to-day, not of