"There you are wrong," said Cousrouf Pacha; "mildness and gentleness do not become a ruler; only by severity and an unbending will can he exalt himself to power, and, even when he reaches the goal, he must trust to arms, if he is to maintain himself." "And if with sword and dagger he reaches the throne," said Osman, looking gently and reproachfully at the proud pacha, "may he then hope to hear music and hymns of praise, or must he not then only expect to hear cries of anguish uttered by those over whose heads he strode to power? He could not then expect to see a fair and blooming land, but a land full of corpses and blood! No, no, Cousrouf Pacha! I desire not to reach that height. I will rather dwell in the valleys-in the shadow of the cliffs on the sea shore-and gather shells, and revel in the gladness and delight of a modest and quiet existence." "And you, Mohammed," said the pacha, smiling scornfully, "what is your ambition? Will you gather shells upon the sea-shore with Osman, or will you climb the heights with me to a splendid goal?" Mohammed turned his eyes entirely away from the pacha, nodded to his friend Osman, and said: "I will tread my own path alone. Where fate will lead me I know not. I seek no companionship, and will follow no man's lead. From time to time, I may turn aside from my path, and wander, with joy and gladness, with my only friend, on the sea- shore, and seek for shells, and revel in the delights of a modest and quiet life." With a kindly glance, Osman extended his hand, as if in a grateful greeting. The men of Praousta continued to pass before the iron cage, and the sheik still appealed to them to be firm, and not to sacrifice their rights. Suddenly the sun disappeared, and night came down upon the earth. The prisoners said their evening prayers in a loud voice, and when, from the minarets of Praousta, the call of the muredin rang out on the air, the prisoners commenced singing, firmly and devoutly: "God is great! There is no God but our God, and Mohammed is his prophet! Come to prayer! Come to be healed! God is just! There is no God but our God!" And from the village of Praousta the solemn hymn was echoed back: "God is just! There is no God but our God!" Then all was silent, and the night, like a silver veil, wrapped the earth in its folds. In the house of the tschorbadji all was still; it was the custom to retire early and to rise with the sun. God, in His goodness, created the night for repose. The moon is a sacred lantern, which God hangs over a sleeping world, and the stars are the eyes of the guardian angels watching over the helpless sleepers. Therefore, is it well to go to rest with the setting sun.