But today he forgot his knowledge and experience, and the illusion was to him reality. He stretched out his arms, and gazed at the heavenly picture that had risen out of the waves, and his lips whispered in longing accents: "Masa, come to me; let the water that drips from you fall on my burning heart, soothe my anguish; speak to me of my future, and tell me what you desire me to do. Oh, speak to me, Masa!"Enraptured, he still gazed out into the air at the sweet vision that rose higher and higher out of the waves. At last it stretched out its arms over him, and a cold breath kissed his lips! After a long pause, he opened his eyes again. Had he been dreaming? Was it reality? He lay on the rock alone in the morning light of the sun.
The image had disappeared, and silence surrounded him, profound silence.
And in this silence Mohammed formed his last, his decisive resolve.
As he lay there, he had entreated Allah to deliver him, by death, from this tormenting struggle, this doubt. The hour of irresolution had now passed, and he felt strengthened with renewed life. He looked up at the heavens; and a hitherto undreamed of world seemed to lie open before him. He looked out into the purple distance, and he seemed to be hold the minarets, and temples, and mountains, and plains of a new land. Was he never to reach this land? Were all the dreams of his youth to come to naught, and the prophecies made by the woman who had told his mother that he was to be a hero, to remain unfulfilled? And was Masa to remain unavenged in her cold grave? He has duties to fulfil toward wife and children. But revenge is also a sacred duty, and he has sworn to himself a thousand times, that he will perform this duty. Vengeance for Masa! Vengeance on him! The hour has come! Grasp the occasion! He may fail in his career, but, if successful, his success will be great, divine. It will be heavenly, if he must die, to fall on the field of battle amid the roar of artillery, and the clash of arms. Such a death were far preferable to a life like that he now leads, protracted through long, weary years. Who has brought about this struggle, and implanted these aspirations in his breast? It is Allah's work! In his early youth, his mother had told him of her dreams, and hope for her boy! Who was it that arose from the waves and permitted him to see in her dewy hand a sword and a crown! It was Masa, his Masa!
These three, Allah, his mother, and Masa, have spoken to him, and Mohammed has heard and understood their words.
As he stands there on the verge of the cliff, gazing out into the distance, and listening to the sea murmuring at his feet, he now feels that he is the instrument chosen to do great deeds. He must obey Destiny, he must respond to the appeal of revenge, of honor, and of renown. And a threatening voice whispers in his soul:
"Cousrouf Pacha, beware! You have called your judge yourself.
Beware, the avenger will appear! You will not recognize him, for his countenance will smile, and his bearing will be soft and composed.
You will not recognize him, but he will come. Beware, Cousrouf Pacha!"Mohammed now turns to descend to Cavalla, and he feels himself a changed, a new man.
He slowly descended, his head erect, his breast swelling with a proud joyousness. The struggle is over, and the voice of anguish is forever stilled. Mohammed cones among men again another and a better man, and, before returning to his own house, he repairs to the palace of the tschorbadji, to seek his friend Osman.
When Osman saw him coming he smiled, nodded to him, and held out his hand.
"Well, my Mohammed, I see by your countenance that the struggle is over, and that Mohammed knows what future is in store for him."Mohammed grasped his friend's hand warmly in his own, a bright smile lighting up his countenance.
"He at least knows, my Osman, what demands he intends to make of the future, and, if they are not accorded, he will at least know how to die gloriously."
