CHAPTER XVIII
OMAR PASHA
It is high noon, and not a sound, save the occasional snort of animpatient steed, is to be heard throughout the lines. Picketed in rows,the gallant little chargers of the Turkish cavalry are dozing away thehours between morning and evening feed. The troopers themselves aresmoking and sleeping in their tents; here and there may be seen a devoutMussulman prostrate on his prayer-carpet, his face turned towards Mecca,and his thoughts wholly abstracted from all worldly considerations.Ill-fed and worse paid, they are nevertheless a brawny, powerful race,their broad rounded shoulders, bull necks, and bowed legs denotingstrength rather than activity; whilst their high features and markedswarthy countenances betray at once their origin, sprung fromgenerations of warriors who once threatened to overwhelm the wholeWestern world in a tide that has now been long since at the ebb. Patientare they of hardship, and devoted to the Sultan and their duty, made forsoldiers and nothing else, with their fierce, dogged resolution, andtheir childish obedience and simplicity. Hand-in-hand, two of them arestrolling leisurely through the lines to release a restive little horsewho has got inexplicably entangled in his own and his neighbour'spicket-ropes, and is fighting his way out of his difficulty with teethand hoofs. They do not hurry themselves, but converse peacefully asthey pass along.
"Is is true, Mustapha, that _Giaours_ are still coming to join our Bey?The Padisha[#] is indeed gracious to these sons of perdition."
[#] The Sultan.