"I cannot speak of it now, and I am a poor, unhappy being whose feet are too weak to bear him. I pray you go down to Praousta yourself. Oh, go to the cliffs, father, go to the caves and openings in the rock! Take the servants with you! I conjure you, father, do not delay a moment!" He could speak no further, and the tschorbadji saw, with dismay, that his son's face was deathly pale. "Be courageous, my Osman! It shall be as you say. I will call the servants. See, I am already going!" He hastily left the palace with his servants. All is still quiet in Praousta--the walk among the cliffs, and down to the shore. Then suddenly-- "What is that on the beach? O Allah, the merciful! Is that not a dead body? Is it not Mohammed? Bound and gagged! He does not move! Quick, cut the ropes, take the gag out of his mouth!" This is speedily done, but still Mohammed does not move. "Is he dead? There are no wounds to be seen on his person! No, not dead, he is only insensible. Bring water, wet his temples, cool his forehead!" Allah be praised! He moves, he lives! Yes, he lives, and he bounds suddenly to his feet, and he gazes around with the expression not of a man, but of a tiger. He then utters a cry so fearful, so terrible a cry, that the tschorbadji's heart is filled with anxiety and compassion. With outstretched arms, Mohammed walks down to the verge of the sea. The servants rush after him, and endeavor to hold him back. He clinches his fists and strikes them, but they grasp him firmly, and at last succeed in overcoming him. "Mohammed, compose yourself and be strong!" said the tschorbadji, clasping his arms about him. "Friend of my son, take pity on me, and remember that Osman dies if you die." He shakes his head, but cannot speak. He looks at the sea, the terrible sea! His eyes stare in horror at the place where Masa sank, then close, and he falls to the ground insensible. The servants now raise him in their arms, and carry him to the governor's house. His countenance deathly pale, Osman stands at the gate awaiting them. He sees the sad procession approaching. He knows they are bringing his friend, and, hastening forward to meet them, he receives the motionless body, hot, glowing tears pouring from his eyes. Awakened by the dew of his friend's falling tears, Mohammed opens his eyes and looks up. His lips part, and murmur softly, "Dead, Masa is dead!"--nothing more! The whole history of his anguish lies in the words, "Dead, Masa is dead!" CHAPTER II ALL THINGS PASS AWAY. Ten years had passed since the painful event that had consigned the daughter of the sheik, the Flower of Praousta, to so early a grave, and caused him who had loved her a long and severe illness.