They knock at the shutters, they shake the door, but all remains silent within; the light of the fire does not awake him, the cries do not reach his ear. He is not there; he is assuredly not passing the night in his house. It has certainly been set on fire in vain; the poor people have sacrificed their property, and the spies have failed to discover where Mohammed Ali has passed the night. On the following morning howls and lamentations are heard in the lower apartments of the harem; from time to time the sound of blows can be distinguished, and then again howls and cries of pain. No one dares inquire into the cause of these outcries, for in his own apartments Cousrouf Pacha is master, and even the governor would not venture to call him to account for his treatment of his own servants. Osman lay on his cushions in the little portion of his garden that had alone been reserved for the use of himself and father, since Cousrouf Pacha had been occupying the remainder with his harem. He heard the howls and cries of pain that came from the harem, and bowed his head in sadness. "These poor wretches must suffer for it!" he murmured to himself. But suddenly his countenance brightens, as he sees his friend approaching in his glittering uniform, and he extends both hands to greet him. "I am delighted to see you, Mohammed, after this long absence!" "As I am you!" said the latter, his countenance radiant with smiles. "Forgive me for not having come to see you all day yesterday. I was so busy with my soldiers, and still more so with myself, Osman! I have had much to learn to keep the soldiers from observing that I was a mere beginner in the art of war." "And that is all you have to say in excuse for your conduct?" said Osman, looking searchingly into his friend's countenance. "That is all," replied he, hastily, endeavoring to look his friend full in the face. But be could not, and looked aside. Osman notices this, and nods his head with a smile full of meaning. "Pray seat yourself at my side Mohammed? Let me throw my arm around your neck, and then listen to me, my friend. Offer no resistance, for I must confess that your friend Osman has been employing spies for some time past, and be knows more than Mohammed supposes, and much more than Consrouf Pacha dreams of." "What do you know?" asked Mohammed, trembling slightly. "I pray you tell me, Osman!" "Listen, Mohammed," said Osman, bending toward him, in a low voice. "Lamentations have just resounded from the interior of the pacha's harem. Two of his eunuchs have received the bastinado, and do you know why? Because they could not inform him where Mohammed Ali passed the last and the preceding night." "For that reason?" asked Mohammed. "I was in my house. If Cousrouf Pacha had himself asked me, I should have told him I was there!" Osman gently shook his head. "No, Mohammed, you were not in your house; and Cousrouf Pacha well knows you were not. Do you know why? He lighted a lamp to look for you."