"Yes, Sitta Nefysseh is in the park. She is resting in the kiosk, and I will announce to the female slaves that Osman Bey Bardissi wishes to see their mistress.""Do so, Kachef Youssouf," said Bardissi. "But first listen to me.
How would you like to be taken into my service, kachef? you are too good for this life of inactivity? If you desire it, I will ask Sitta Nefysseh to give you your *******?""Give me my *******? I am free!" said Youssouf, regarding Bardissi with proud composure. "I was a Mameluke with Mourad, as you know. My noble master had purchased me; he loved me, and often told me Ishould remain with him while I lived. He made me kachef, first kachef of his house. I swore eternal fidelity to him and to his house, and I will keep my oath.""I do not doubt it," replied Bardissi, in kindly tones; "I only mean, Youssouf, that you are too young not to wish to wield the sword and join us in the conflict that is soon to be renewed. Poor Youssouf, you will then be shut out from our ranks, for Sitta Nefysseh no longer sends her Mamelukes with us to battle; she now uses them for her service only, and I am certain she would be well pleased if her kachef Youssouf, as it becomes him, draws his sword to win laurels in the field. You can make something great of yourself. Look at me, Youssouf: I was what you are; like you a Mameluke, also like you a kachef, and could let my beard grow, and now I am a Mameluke bey, and three thousand servants follow me to battle. You might accomplish as much, Youssouf.""I am satisfied with what I am, and ask for nothing more," replied the kachef. "I swore to Mourad Bey to serve him and his house my life long, and I will keep my oath: I therefore entreat you to say nothing to Sitta Nefysseh. She might be displeased.""I will not," replied Bardissi; "remain true to your word. And now go and inquire whether your mistress can see me."Youssouf hastened to where the slaves were still singing their melancholy song, and sent one of them down into the park to inform her that the Mameluke bey, Osman Bardissi, had come, and desired to see her.
The slave advanced timidly to the entrance of the kiosk, and announced the visitor to Sitta Nefysseh, who, awakening from a dream she had dreamed with open eyes, gently inclined her head.
"He is welcome. Conduct him to me.--Come nearer, ye slaves, and seat yourselves behind that clump of rose-bushes. You can sing and play while I am receiving my visitor, for Osman Bey loves music. Do me honor, my slaves, and sing the love-songs of Djumeil and his Lubna."Bardissi cannot see these musicians as he advances toward the kiosk, conducted by the slave; he only hears and rejoices in their song.
Sitta Nefysseh has risen from her cushions, but she has not covered her face with the veil which, fastened to her hair with golden clasps, falls back over her shoulders. The widow, and above all the widow of the bey, is allowed to remain unveiled in the presence of a friend. The great prophet never commanded that the wives of Moslems should appear veiled in their own houses; the jealousy of their husbands had gradually imposed this burden upon them. Conscious of her own worth and dignity, Sitta Nefysseh feels herself free to disregard such requirement. She turns her lovely countenance with a gentle smile toward the advancing bey, and Bardissi feels the glance of her large eyes, though he does not see them. He feels it, and moves not, a slight tremor possessing itself of his entire being.
What! Bardissi trembles!--the hero, who amid the din of battle joyously confronts the death-dealing cannon, who never trembles, though face to face with a whole forest of spears--Bardissi trembles and turns pale!
Sitta Nefysseh sees it, and her smile brightens. "Why do you hesitate to approach, Osman? and what have you to say to me, friend of my husband, Mourad Bey?"She wishes to remind him that he had been Mourad's friend. He well understands her meaning, and, stepping quickly forward, falls on his knee before her, and reverently kisses the hem of her dress.
"I paused, O Sitta, Rose of Cairo--I paused because I heard the song of the slaves--they are singing my favorite song.""The song is known to you?" said Sitta Nefysseh.
"It is. Do you know, Sitta, when I first heard this song?""I do not," replied she, shaking her head gently.
"May I tell you?"
"Do so; seat yourself on the marble stool standing at the entrance of the kiosk, and tell me."She falls back upon her cushion with the easy grace of a swan. But Bardissi does not take the seat so graciously assigned him. He steps forward and remains standing in front of Sitta Nefysseh, gazing down upon her with reverence and delight, as though his glances were a consecrated gold-inworked veil in which he wishes to envelop her lovely form, and draw her to his heart.
"Well, Osman Bey, when did you first hear this song?"He remains silent for a moment; the bees are humming in the air, the fountains flashing, and from the distance the words of the song the slaves are singing are wafted over by the gentle breeze:
