LOVE UNTO DEATH.
ON the afternoon of this fearful day, all was again restored to quiet in the streets of Cairo. The terror-stricken inhabitants had again ventured forth from their houses, and were standing in groups, discussing in subdued voices the events of the day. But they ceased conversing when they now saw the cadi approaching on horseback, and in advance of him the public crier. In the cadi's name he proclaimed to the people a general amnesty for all past offences: "The new viceroy is to enter the city on the morrow. Let the city put on festive attire, and let a hearty welcome be extended him. Remove from the streets and houses all traces of conflict and bloodshed.
Bury your dead, and care for your wounded, ye wives of the Mameluke beys and the kachefs. Do your duty, ye women and ye servants."These orders of the cadi were proclaimed throughout the entire city by the crier.
But now the veiled women come out into the streets with their servants, and, in obedience to the prophet's injunctions, seek the wounded and suffering, take them to their houses, and care for them tenderly.
Many of the dead and wounded lie in front of Bardissi's palace--men who had stood faithfully by their master, and fallen bravely in the discharge of duty.
A number of women approach this place. Veiled like the rest is she who precedes the others; yet her royal bearing, and the deference shown her by the servants and Mamelukes who accompany her, proclaim her to be Sitta Nefysseh. She is performing her woman's duty of seeking out and caring for the wounded. She stoops down over the bodies that lie stretched out on the earth, and suddenly a cry escapes her lips--a single cry; she then beckons to the servants, who have followed them with stretchers, for the transport of the unfortunate. She gazes in mute horror at the Mameluke bey who lies there, weltering in his blood, a fearful wound on his forehead, that almost renders his features irrecognizable. She, however, distinguishes her lover, and commands her servants to place him on the stretcher. With her own hands she binds up his wound, and covers his countenance with the white cloths handed her by her women. She then orders her servants to carry the Mameluke bey to her house, and directs her women to continue their search for the wounded.
She walks beside the stretcher on which the wounded man lies. He does not move; he lies there insensible, unconscious of what is taking place.
Perhaps Sitta Nefysseh is only conveying a corpse to her house!
She has him carried up into the second story of her house. There he is laid on a mat, and with tender hands Sitta Nefysseh herself adjusts the cushions and pillows. The servants bring to his couch, in silver bowls, water and the healing ointment which Sitta Nefysseh had prepared with her own hands. With gentle touch she wipes the blood from his countenance, washes out the wound, and applies to it the ointment.
She neither weeps nor laments. Her lips are mute, and her eyes shed nq tsars. Is this a time to weep, when Youssouf Bey is suffering and needs her care and attention? No, at such a time a woman must be strong. She will have time enough for tears and lamentation in her after-life.
The fearful gash on his forehead bears silent evidence of this. She has often seen similar wounds, and bound them up herself.
She well knows that Youssouf Bey is wounded unto death--that there is no hope of recovery: Yet she does not weep. With Allah all is possible, and he may be gracious. A miracle may occur; Youssouf's youthful vigor and his heroic nature may yet vanquish Death. Perhaps her love may preserve him. Grant, merciful Allah, that it be so!
Her women now come with other injured Mamelukes, who are placed on the mats Sitta Nefysseh had caused to be spread out for them in the adjoining room.
Sitta Nefysseh forbids any one to enter the room where Youssouf lies.
"He needs repose," said she, stepping into the adjoining room to see that the other wounded were being well cared for. "Youssouf Bey needs repose. Be still, move noiselessly, and do not disturb his sleep! It may be the sleep of death. Be still, close the doors and draw the curtains, that no noise may reach him!"It is perfectly quiet in the room where Youssouf Bey lies. Sitta Nefysseh kneels beside him. Her hands folded in silent prayer, her eyes fastened on his countenance, she bends over him and breathes her warm, glowing breath through his cold lips, to give him of her life, and bathes his cold brow with her warm tears.
Sitta Nefysseh's prayerful, tearful entreaties are heard. Youssouf Bey awakens from his death-like slumber. Love has recalled the spirit to the body. Love opens his eyes and permits him to see and recognize her who is bowed over him, regarding him with loving tenderness.
"Is it you, Sitta Nefysseh? Am I already dead, and is it a divine being that looks at me with your eyes?""No, my Youssouf, you live and are with me on earth!""Oh, it is impossible--impossible! Only a sweet illusion," whispers he, with quivering lips; his eyes close, and he falls back heavily.
But she bends over him, strokes his brow and cheek with gentle touch, and calls him loving names.
"You live," murmurs she, "oh, feel that you live, dear Youssouf, Feel it in this kiss!"A soft tremor courses through his entire being, and his eyes open.
Yes, he lives! He is not dead! This is Nefysseh's victory over death, this is the result of the impassioned kiss impressed on the lips of her beloved.
"And is it possible, Nefysseh, you are indeed with me, and my dreams of love and bliss are realized? You with me! What can have happened?
Why this wondrous change?"
He raises his hand to his forehead and touches the wound, and then he knows what has taken place; he feels it in the burning pain of his wound.
