Yûsuf Pasha was upon the point of going out when his son was shown into his presence in his private room. He smiled upon the stripling’s prayer to be allowed to fight, but said:
“No, no, my son. Thou art too young as yet. Wait till the war is ended and then join the fray.”
With that he patted the boy’s cheek, bestowed his blessing on him, and went out, little guessing that he left despair behind him. A carriage waited for him at the door. An armed slave scrambled up beside the driver. It was the hour of sunset. Two months since the ways would have been merry at that hour. But now the passengers were few and fully armed; they looked suspicious and, where groups were formed, the talk seemed guarded. A curse had fallen on the happy city. The sunset blushed on her high roofs, the crescent flashed on all her spires and domes, and in the gullies which were streets lay depths of shade; yet no one felt the rapture of the evening.