The Mameluke beys, Bardissi and Ismail, need money, need it more than ever. But where are they to get it? The question is a perplexing, a tormenting one, and with dismay Bardissi submits it to his faithful friend and untiring adviser, the sarechsme, Mohammed Ali. And it was Mohammed who continually advised the imposition of new taxes, and who was constantly engaged with Bardissi in devising new means of raising money; and the imposition of each new burden was the signal for a new cry of rage from the oppressed people. The soldiers, too, began to murmur again, and to loudly demand their long-withheld pay. The Albanians and Armenians, subject to Mohammed Ali, were held by him in severe discipline. He did not allow his soldiers to make thieves and robbers of themselves. He threatened with instant death all who should be caught in the act. They, however, clamored all the more loudly for pay. Mohammed listened to them quietly, and seemed to be touched by their complaints. "But," said he, sadly, "it does not rest with me to pay you, neither can I do so. I am poor myself; I have nothing to live on but my pay, and that is withheld from me also. I therefore have, unfortunately, nothing to give my soldiers. Only the chiefs, Ismail or Bardissi, can give you your pay." His soldiers have understood him. They salute their sarechsme, go away, and say nothing. Mohammed well knows where the swarm of soldiers that had stood before his house have now gone, led by their bim bashis. They rush, their numbers increasing on the way, to the house where Bardissi resides. With loud cries they demand to speak with Bardissi himself. He appears, and asks why they have come. The vestibule of the palace is already crowded with soldiers, and new masses are continually pouring into the court-yard. In reply to Bardissi's question, they all cry loudly: "We have come for our pay! We want money! We are hungry! We want our pay, our money!" "Go back to your quarters, and remain there, quietly!" cries Bardissi. "In two days you shall have your pay. Go!" "We will wait no longer!" cries a bim bashi, and they all cry after him: "We want our money! We will not leave here until we are paid!" They press farther and farther into the house, more and more fiercely demanding their pay. Suddenly, a loud, firm voice resounds from the court-yard: "What does this mean, soldiers? What are you doing here? How dare you force your way into the palace of the chief?" A smile lights up Bardissi's countenance. This is his friend Mohammed Ali. He will extricate him from his embarrassing position. Yes, it is he, the sarechsme, at whose approach the men respectfully fall back and make room. He enters the palace and hastens to Bardissi. "Oh, forgive me! I knew not that my soldiers had dared to come here. They also came to me and demanded their pay; I had none to give them, yet I had no idea they would go so far as to annoy you personally."