As Mohammed now advanced with elastic step, his head erect, the two looked at him in admiration. "How splendid he looks!" murmured the pale boy. "That is health, father, and life. He is just my age, and only look at me!" The tschorbadji suppressed a sigh, and smiled gently as he looked at his son. "You are ill, my Osman. Allah will grant you speedy recovery, and then you will become strong and healthy like Mohammed Ali.--Well!" he cried to the boy who had stood still at some distance with his birds in his hand--"well, I see you have kept your word, and brought my son the wild-pigeons." "I have, and am glad that I was able to do so." replied Mohammed, as he now came nearer in obedience to the bey's request, and greeted the pale boy with a joyous smile. "Give me your hand, Mohammed," said the young boy, who had partially risen from his cushions, and was supporting himself on his elbow. Timidly, Mohammed took the boy's pale, thin hand in his own. "Tell me, Mohammed, why do you not come to see me oftener? You know how glad I always am to see you." "Master, he did not visit you, because it does not become the poor to intrude upon the rich and noble," replied Mohammed, his eyes fixed with an anxious expression on Osman's pale face. "Rich and noble!" repeated Osman, with a sigh. "You are rich, Mohammed, for you are healthy. You are noble, Mohammed; for the inhabitants of the sea and of the air must obey you. You have power, and that is nobility." The tschorbadji was displeased with these humble words of his son, and his brow became clouded. "I think you should be content with your riches and nobility, my son," said he. "Come, hand me the pigeons, Mohammed." He took the beautifully feathered birds from Mohammed's hand, looked at them, and let their feathers play in the sun light. "Yes, they are still warm; so the world goes. An hour since they disported themselves in life's sunshine. The child of man comes, sends a few shot through their bodies, and their glory is at an end. But, I thank you, Mohammed, for having so quickly complied with our wish. Here is your reward." He took two gold-pieces from his purse and handed them to the boy in his outstretched hand. Mohammed did not take them. He drew back at the words of the governor, a deep color suffusing itself over his cheeks. Osman perceived this, and motioned to him to come nearer to his couch. "Mohammed," said he, "father forgot to add for what purpose he wished to give you the money. Not for yourself. I know that your procuring these pigeons for me was an act of friendship. You have always been friendly to me, and I shall never forget what you did for me the other day." "What was it?" asked the tschorbadji, with surprise.