Egypt -- History -- Mohammed Ali, 1805-1849 -- Fiction; Muhammad Ali Basha, Governor of Egypt, 1769-1849 -- Fiction
"His favorite," said Sitta Nefysseh, interrupting him. "He said he
loved you like a brother, and would confide to you without fear or
hesitation all he loved best--his wife, his child--knowing that they
would be guarded and held sacred as though they were in the holiest
niche of the mosque. Yes, my noble husband loved you. And now, speak
on. You had gone out to battle."
"Yes, it was a bloody day. The angel of death hovered over us, and
the swords of the enemy swept heavily upon our ranks. A sabre-stroke
dealt by Bashi Seref fell upon the sword-arm of my noble friend,
striking him down and disabling him. The Turk was preparing to deal
a second blow, when I struck him to the earth with my ataghan. I
then bore my friend from the conflict to his tent, and there you
were, Sitta Nefysseh. You received the hero from my arms, and for
the first time I saw your unveiled countenance. I then returned to
the battle, and took Mourad's place at the head of his Mamelukes.
Whether it was anger over the wounding of my friend, or the bliss
caused by the lovely image I had beheld, I know not, but my arm was
strong and mighty, and love and heroism exulted in my heart. I
called out to the Mamelukes, `We must and will die or conquer!' But,
being still too young to die, and loving life too well, we
conquered. The enemy was driven from the field, and ours was the
victory. We encamped on the field after the bloody conflict; and
then, having won the victory, I felt privileged, when evening came,
to repair to Mourad's tent to report our success.
"No one was there to announce me; I drew back the curtain and
entered the first room. No one was there, and the curtain of the
inner apartment of the tent was half drawn aside. I went no farther,
knowing that the wounded Mourad lay there on his cushions, and that
Sitta Nefysseh was with him. I knew this because I heard her
singing; she sang her beloved to sleep as a mother lulls her babe to
rest, or as the houris sing in paradise, when they in wondrous
melody announce the joys of heaven to dying mortals.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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