The water rushes past them, almost carrying their feet from under them. It already reaches their shoulders, and they can hardly retain their foothold. Kachef Youssouf must have been deceived. A wave, driven by the night-wind, rolls by and sweeps Mohammed with it. Osman Bey sees his friend torn from his side, rushes after him, grasps him with his strong arm, and holds him securely. "I thank you, Osman Bey, you have saved my life." "And I thank Allah that I was at your side and could save it." Finally they succeed in getting over, and now they stand on the other shore. Bardissi embraces Mohammed, and congratulates him on their safe passage. He then grasps Youssouf's hand, and thanks him once more. "Now, good Cousrouf, the days of your rule are numbered." "Yes," murmured Mohammed to himself, "I, too, rejoice in your coming overthrow. O Allah, give us all victory, and give me vengeance!" The passage of the troops is effected. The Albanians first rush to the bridge where the cannon are in position, cut down the gunners before they can give an alarm, and with the captured guns fire their first shots into Damietta. The thunder of these shots arouses the enemy, who lie encamped in front of the fortress, and a bloody, fiercely-contested battle begins. But at its conclusion the allies, Bardissi and Mohammed Ali, enter Damietta in triumph. No quarter is given. They massacre all who fall into their hands; every house is sacked and then burned. On the square in front of Fort Lesbe, a column of soldiers, Cousrouf Pacha at its head, sitting proudly erect on his steed, still opposes them. He has been bravely fighting all along, fighting for life, for victory, for glory, but he has fought in vain; he prefers, however, to die at the head of his followers, than to flee, or fall into the hands of Mohammed Ali. The enemy approaches. A ball strikes Cousrouf's horse, and it sinks to the ground. With difficulty he succeeds in extricating himself from his fallen steed. "Upon them, my brave soldiers!" he cries, drawing his ataghan. "Let us fight our way through to the fort. There we shall be secure." "You shall never reach it!" exclaims Bardissi, his uplifted sword descending upon Cousrouf's head. Suddenly his arm is grasped, and held as in a vise. "Give him to me, Bardissi!" cries Mohammed. "And you wish to save Cousrouf's life, Mohammed?" "Only give him to me, Bardissi, I pray you!" Bardissi recognized in the tone in which these few words were uttered, that Mohammed's motive in making his request was not love for Cousrouf. "You are my prisoner," cried Mohammed, tearing the sword from Cousrouf's hand, and hurling it far from him. He then grasped him by the shoulders and looked him firmly in the eye. "Cousrouf Pacha, I, Mohammed Ali, make you my prisoner."