them to Stamboul to the coffers of the grand-sultan.

But the vessel now approaching is no Turkish galleon, but a
magnificent ship; and one can see on the deck, under the gold-
embroidered tent, a Turk reclining on cushions. Slaves in rich
attire are on their knees before him, others are behind him fanning
the flies away with fans made of peacock-feathers.

"Who can this great man, this stranger be?" ask the curious, who are
standing on the beach, gazing fixedly at the ship that has now
entered the little bay, and is steering toward the landing.

Mohammed has also hurried down to the beach. To-day, while his heart
and mind are filled with the narrative of the scha-er, to-day every
thing seems to him so strange, so wonderful; it seems to him that he
is about to receive intelligence from the world his whole being
longs for so intensely, the world that is one day to lie at his
feet.

The ship has entered the bay, and a boat containing three Turkish
gentlemen is coming from it to the shore: They haughtily step
ashore, and pass by, without saluting the crowd, to the pathway that
leads up to Cavalla. But the grand-looking Turk is still on deck,
reclining on his cushions; the slaves are still about, filling and
refilling his long chibouque, on whose golden mouth-piece brilliants
are seen glittering.

Mohammed's keen eyes observe all this, and he follows each movement
of the aristocratic Turk with breathless attention. Thus, he thinks,
will he also do some day; thus will he, too, recline on his silken