All was still; nothing could be heard but the murmur of the sea, and the rustling of the wind. The merchant, who had at first stood in silence beside the two, now walked noiselessly away. They love each other, and what they have to say, no one else should hear. Mohammed stands up and dries his eyes; he wishes to be composed. Osman holds out his hand: "Your mother is dead, but she survives in your friends, and your mother and your friend now extend the hand to you. Mohammed, come with me to my house, for my house is yours, too. I will not have you remain alone; you must come with me." Mohammed shook his head gravely. "It cannot be--I will not become a slave!" "Come, out of love for me. Not as my slave, but as my friend. Oh, I am so lonely, and you are the only one who loves, and can console, poor, sickly Osman." "I will come to you!" exclaimed Mohammed, drawing his friend to his bosom. "Even as a slave would I come, for I should be my friend's slave. I will come to you." CHAPTER X COUSROUF PACHA. THE days had passed quietly and monotonously for Mohammed since the death of his mother. To climb among the rocks with his gun in stormy weather, to cross over in his boat to Imbra, after the fishermen's nets and fish, and to tame the young Arabian steeds of the tschorbadji that had as yet known no bridle, these were now Mohammed's chief pursuits and pleasures, and in them he engaged with passionate ardor when at leisure, that is, when not with his friend Osman Bey. That which they had vowed to each other after the death of Mohammed's mother, they had kept-true and firm friendship, brotherly and confidential intercourse. With one wish only of young Osman, had Mohammed not complied: he had not gone to live with him in the proud, governmental building-had refused to share his friend's luxury and magnificence, and to allow his poverty to be put to shame by the benefits which he would have been compelled to accept. The hut, inherited from his parents, he retained as his own dwelling. In it nothing had been changed; the mat on which his mother had died was now his bed. In the pitcher out of which she had drunk, he each morning brought fresh water from the spring, and all the articles she had used, poor and miserable as they were, now constituted the furniture of his hut. In vain had Osman continually renewed his entreaties: "Come to me. Live with me; not for your own sake, Mohammed. I know that you despise luxury, and that the splendor that surrounds us is offensive to you. Not for your own, but for my sake, Mohammed, come to me and live with us. My father is so anxious to have you do so, for he knows that your presence is the best medicine for me. I feel so well and strong when I look at you, Mohammed; and, when you sometimes yield to my entreaties and spend the night with me in my room, it seems to me I sleep better, for I know that my friend is watching over me. Stay with me, Mohammed!"