A cry of rage resounds from Bardissi's lips. His friend Osman Tamboudji has just been stretched out at his feet by a ball. He has thrown away his pistol, and now grasps the hilt of his dagger, when he is suddenly stricken down by a blow upon the head, dealt from behind. The vessels have completely surrounded the Mamelukes; the Turks on the ships jump down into the boats to assist the others, and the work of slaughter is soon ended. All is now still. Those who are not dead lie severely wounded in the boats. The Turks return to their vessels, and the boulouk bashi orders the wounded to be brought on board. The order is executed; the dead are left in the boats, and the wounded are carried on board. They now lift up the wounded man who lies beside the dead bey, in the large boat in which they had first seen the capitan standing with the two beys. "Bring him up the ladder," cries the boulouk bashi. He is unconscious, and is bleeding from three wounds. But even in this condition he still grasps his dagger so firmly that it cannot be torn from his band, and as the soldiers attempt it he awakens and opens his eyes. "You are treacherous scoundrels, all of you! Osman Bey Bardissi declares you to be such." The boulouk bashi starts as he hears this name, steps forward and gazes long and earnestly at the bey, whom he had once seen as a boy. Must he meet him now in this condition? His gaze is fixed on him, and he tries to recognize in his features the boy of former days. "You are scoundrels!" cries, for the second time, the proud chieftain. "Ye slaves of bloody tyranny--ye murderous, treacherous villains--shame and disgrace upon you all! Before Allah's throne will I accuse you, ye treacherous, slavish Turks." With cries of rage they throw themselves upon him to strangle him. But an arm burls them back with a giant's strength. "Do you wish to murder those who can no longer defend themselves? Back! The life of the wounded, of the vanquished enemy, is sacred." Bardissi, who has again fallen back exhausted, looks up in astonishment at the stranger who protected him, and was even angry with his own soldiers on his account. How comes it that this traitor's heart is touched? Mohammed kneels down beside him. "What is your name?" asks he, in low tones. "Osman Bey Bardissi," replied the wounded man, and now, exhausted as he was from loss of blood, a proud smile flittered over his handsome countenance. "Not knowing me, you must be a stranger in Egypt," added he. "Yes, I am a stranger in Egypt, and this accounts for my not knowing you. Yet, it seems to me that we once met; were you not once on the shores of the bay of Sta. Marmora?" "Yes, I was once there!" "Do you recollect meeting a boy there? You spoke to him of your proud future." "I remember," murmured the bey. "And you spoke proud, contemptuous words to this boy. Do you still remember his name?" "I do; he was called Mohammed Ali, and I told him my name, Osman Bey. Were you the boy?"