"I know you would not," replied Cousrouf, quietly. "Yet you would give all these thirteen years of falsehood and trickery, of cunning flattery; yes, you would give the miserable triumph of this hour for a single smile of the slave to whom I awarded merited punishment. Ah, Mohammed Ali, you fancied yourself the victor. I am he! This your thirst for vengeance proclaims. It tells me that the wound in your heart still burns. And who gave you this wound? I, Cousrouf Pacha, and therefore do you seek vengeance on me. The wound still bleeds, and I am triumphant! Yes, I am the victor. You should see your own countenance at this moment; now, you are not vengeance and hatred, but misery, personified. Let me in conclusion proclaim this: Masa is dead, and I slew Masa. Slay me, her murderer. But dying, I shall cry exultingly: 'Your wound still bleeds, and I am victor! Masa is dead, here stands her slayer, slay him!'" For a moment Mohammed was silent; a deathly pallor had overspread his countenance, and his eyes gleamed fiercely. He grasped the dagger in his girdle, drew it from its sheath, and raised it high in his right hand. Cousrouf gazed at him with a triumphant expression. He wished for death, he longed for it after his fearful overthrow. Perhaps Mohammed read this in his glance. His arm sank slowly to his side, and he replaced the dagger in its sheath. "Cousrouf Pacha, you desire death, but you shall not die. You shall live to learn that the wound in my heart no longer bleeds; that it is healed. If it were not so, by Allah, you, the murderer of Masa, were already dead! Do you hear me? I pronounce the name I have not spoken for many years the name Masa! You were her murderer, not her judge! You were not her master, she was not your slave. Her death was not lawful; you could not condemn her, and therefore do I call you a common murderer. I know that murderers are slain, that blood is atoned for by blood. This punishment the heart dictates, and this punishment the law of the land prescribes. But this punishment were too mild for you, Cousrouf Pacha. I will not slay you; you shall suffer shame and humiliation; you shall drink the cup of bitterness and disgrace to the very dregs. I will take you to Cairo, and there in the citadel you shall await my last act of revenge." "You threaten me," said Cousrouf, quietly." What evil can you add to that already inflicted? I do not fear your threat, and I shall not feel humiliated at being led a prisoner into the citadel, where I once ruled your master, and where Mohammed Ali, the sarechsme by my grace, so often knelt in the dust before me. I have been vanquished in honorable warfare, and in a just cause; and though you, the victor, triumph over, I shall still remain, your lawful master!"