"In two hours!" repeated Mohammed. "An hour after sunset, this evening, have the dromedary in readiness, and, for yourself, the swiftest horse. At that hour we will depart."
CHAPTER XVI
RETRIBUTION.
Night has come. The Bedouin chief, Arnhyn, has retired to rest. He is to start early in the morning with others of his tribe for Tantah, to take to market the wool of their black sheep, the cloth they have woven out of it, the goat-skins; and cheese.
Butheita, also, must rise early in the morning, for she is to accompany her father, and has many little preparations to make. On the evening before, she had already done up her hair in a hundred small plaits, securing them with gold-headed pins, on some of which precious stones sparkled. The pink silk dress, the white veil, and the shoes, all lie ready for use: She has colored her finger-nails and the palms of her hands with henna; but Butheita scorns to color her face; moreover, no one is to see her face. Hitherto she had cordially detested her veil, but now she hides her countenance closely in the presence of all men.
Surprised at this, the sheik has often asked her how it happened that such a change had come over her, and that she showed herself to no one unveiled since the strangler had sojourned in their tent, as though his eyes had hurt her, and made her afraid of the gaze of men.
Butheita had only smiled mysteriously in response to his questions; she well knows, however, why she does so: she knows it is to keep sacred from the gaze of other men the countenance consecrated by his glance.
Night has come. The sheik is sleeping soundly on his mat in the first apartment of the tent, and Butheita on her cushions in the inner apartment. Deep silence prevails, interrupted only from time to time by the desert-wind as it sweeps across the plain and shakes the stakes of the tent, and makes the white canvas swe11 out.
Surely it was only the wind that now raised the curtain and made the canvas rustle. But it does not awaken the sheik; he is accustomed to such sounds, and sleeps so quietly that he does not see the shadow that glides cautiously into the tent, and creeps to where he lies sleeping. Without, stands another man, holding up the curtain to enable the first to see his way.
The moon throws a ray of light into the tent, and with a quick bound the man is beside the sheik, and binds his hands and feet. The sheik is now aroused; he opens his lips to utter a cry, but a wooden gag, is thrust into his mouth. He can neither cry out nor move; he lies there perfectly helpless, looking up wrathfully at the enemy who is treating him so shamefully.
The robber's face is masked, and he can not recognize him. But a robber he assuredly is; yes, a robber who is searching for treasure, and who well knows that the sheik possesses several little chests filled with gold-pieces, jewelry, and precious stones, and who also knows that they are kept within in Butheita's apartment. Yes, the robber knows this, for he is cautiously creeping into the second apartment. But this is not the one who bound him; it is another. There are therefore more of them. The first, the tall man who bound him, is now waiting at the door of the tent; the other, the smaller one, is entering the inner apartment. The sheik, powerless to prevent, sees all this as he lies bound on his mat.
Butheita still sleeps soundly. He who glides to her side regards her for a moment with an ardent, passionate glance, and then bends down and quickly binds her feet, and her hands, that lie crossed on her breast, with silken cloths. As she awakens and attempts to cry out, he quickly throws a gold-embroidered cuffei over her head, ties it securely around her neck, and then lifts Butheita in his arms. But, as he does so, he whispers in her ear, "Fear nothing, Butheita, no harm will be done you!"
A sudden tremor seizes her; she thinks she recognizes this voice. But no, it is impossible. He would not come to her as a robber. No, she is mistaken. Yet she offers no resistance. And what resistance can she offer? Her hands and feet are bound, and now she is borne out, and lifted high, and then laid down.
She does not see that she is on her own dromedary. She lies on the same cushion in the same palanquin in which she had once held the sarechsme Mohammed Ali a prisoner, and he it is who seats himself beside her. "And now onward, onward, my Alpha!"
The Nubian mounts his horse, and the swift dromedary speeds his way through the desert.
The night is clear, and the moon is shedding a golden lustre over the sand, through which the ship of the desert is flying with its rich prize, and behind it the Nubian, his hand on his pistol, ready to shoot down any one who may dare to attack his master.
Now the rider draws rein and stops the dromedary; the sublime image of the desert-queen, silvered over with the moonlight, towers before them in majestic proportions.
"This is the desert-queen, the goddess of all the Bedouins!" cries Mohammed. "Do you wish to see her, Butheita? I am sorry for you, and would gladly remove the cloth from your head and eyes in order that you may see. But if you are cruel, you might tear my arms with your teeth. Will you do that, Butheita?"
She starts and shakes her head, inwardly rejoicing, for she recognizes these words, and remembers that she spoke them when he lay a prisoner on the cushion before her. And he now continues to speak just as she spoke then
"You shake your head, and I will trust you and loosen your bonds."
He quickly unties the cuffei and removes it from her head. She looks up at him who is bowed down over her, and the kind moon sheds her soft light upon them, and enables them to see each other.
Oh, happy moment! Forgotten is all, forgotten the long separation— forgotten, also, that her father will be angry and will grieve for her! She looks only at him, sees only him, and yet, as he now bends down closer, she turns her face aside.
Mohammed smiles and points to the sphinx. "Only look at the shadow the moon throws from the dromedary to the mouth of the sphinx! Look at the two heads there, they are our shadows, and they are kissing each other, Butheita!"
She utters a cry of delight. These were her very words, and, as then, he says, bending over her:
"Why should our shadows only kiss each other? Why not our lips, too?"
But she shakes her head and says, as she then said:
"I have promised my father to kiss only that man whom I shall follow to his tent for love. At the door of the tent he may give me the first kiss."
"And you are still resolved to keep this promise?" said he, smiling.
"I am," says she, also smiling. "And you, Mohammed, shall never kiss me!" she continues, the smile vanishing from her lips, and her countenance assuming an angry expression. "No, you shall never kiss me, for you shall never lead me to your tent as your wife! Oh, I see it all plainly. You have stolen me from my father to make me a slave!"
"Yes," said Mohammed, "I intend you to be a slave, the slave of your love! For I know you love me, Butheita!"
"No!" she exclaims: "No, I do not love you! And you have no right to make me a slave. I am the Bedouin queen; my whole tribe call me so, and the daughters of the Bedouins have never been sold into slavery. No, I will not be a slave!"
"And yet you shall be the slave of your love!"
"I do not love you, I hate you!" replies she, crying with anger. "Yes, Mohammed Ali, I hate you, and you shall never kiss me, for I hate the robber who takes me from my father's house in order to make me a slave!"
"Butheita," says he, gently, "I removed the cloth from your lips, but you are not keeping your word; you tear my heart with your lips, and I must cover them again if you continue to wound me so cruelly."
"Do so; close my lips! They shall say nothing else to you!" cries she, angrily. "Do so, close my lips and eyes again!"
"Well, then, I shall do so," he says, taking the gold-embroidered cloth and throwing it over her face. "I do so, Butheita, because I am not willing the rude wind should kiss the cheek of my beloved; unwilling the stars should gaze down on you in your loveliness, unwilling the moon should adorn your countenance with its lustre. I, alone, will adorn you; I, alone, will gaze on your loveliness; and my sighs, alone, shall kiss your cheeks! Yes, Butheita, you belong to me alone, and shall be my slave, as I am your slave, and yet your master. Shake your head if you will. I am your master, for you love me. You shake your head again? You mean to say you hate me! I don't believe it.—Onward, my dromedary, speed through the desert! Onward, my Alpha!"
The dromedary moves on still more rapidly over the desert; its shadow dances beside them on the sand, and behind them the shadow of the Nubian's steed.
The moon grows pale, the stars vanish; day is beginning to dawn. As the sun rises, they reach their destination.
The dromedary stops at the little gate at the end of the park. Achmed dismounts, and opens the gate. Mohammed has lifted Butheita from the palanquin, and now carries his precious burden into the park.
All are asleep in the palace. The two glide softly through the park to the door of the harem. Achmed unlocks it, and Mohammed ascends the stairway with noiseless footsteps. No one hears or sees him. Achmed hastens back to care for the horse and the dromedary. Mohammed carries the precious burden, that lies quietly in his arms, through the suite of glittering apartments. Butheita sees nothing of the splendor through which they pass, and, if she saw it, would not heed it.
What cares she for gilded rooms! the desert puts on more glorious attire with each day's dawn, and nothing can be more sublime than the sphinx near the great pyramids. He who has seen that is astonished at nothing else; to him all things in the houses of men seem petty.
Mohammed is aware of this, and he understands the heart of the girl he bears in his arms; he now enters the large room at the end of the apartments of the harem. Here he gently lays her down, and locks the door. The sun has risen and gilds with its light the lattice-work of the windows, throwing little crimson circles on the mat that covers the floor. Mohammed unties the silken scarf that binds Butheita's feet, and assists her to stand up.
He also unties the scarf that binds her hands, and she now stands before him with her face veiled. He gently removes the cuffei from her head. Her large black eyes glance around the wide space, and she sees the tent that looks exactly like her father's. She turns her eyes on Mohammed with a loving glance. He draws her to his heart.
"Are you still resolved, Butheita, that he only shall kiss you who leads you to his tent as his wife. And will you only allow him to kiss you at the door of the tent?"
"I am still so resolved!" she exclaims, but in joyous tones. "I am still so resolved!"
Mohammed lifts her in his arms and carries her to the tent.
"Butheita, this is my tent! I lead you into it as my wife. Butheita, may I now kiss you?"
She makes no answer, but, with a loud cry, throws herself upon his breast, and kisses him passionately. Mohammed encircles Butheita with his arms, and bears her into his tent.
CHAPTER XVII
CONCLUSION.
THE citadel presents a scene of great animation; its apartments, especially those in which the viceroy's eons are to reside, are richly adorned and hung with flowers. All the doors are thrown open, and a number of richly-attired female slaves are standing in the hall at the head of the grand stairway which is covered with costly carpets from Damascus.
The citadel has put on festive attire in honor of the wife and sons of the viceroy Mohammed Ali, who are expected to arrive to-day.
The people are repairing in vast numbers to Boulak on the shore of the Nile, where the viceroy is to receive his family, and it is whispered among them that she who has resided in the palace of the Esbekieh is not his first, but a second wife. No one has seen her, but very beautiful she must be, else her husband would not guard her so closely. No one has seen her, but a woman certainly dwells there in the harem; its windows are lighted up at night, and eunuchs stand guard outside; veiled slaves have also been seen going in and out of the palace. Yes, the harem has an occupant, but it is only the second wife who lives there; the first is to arrive to-day with her sons from Alexandria!
The people repair in vast numbers to Boulak, to be present at the reunion of the family of their viceroy, who has already made himself beloved by his subjects. He throws money among the poor when he drives through Cairo. He is just, and punishes the guilty with perfect impartiality, the fellah and courtier alike.
Mohammed, accompanied by his officers, has ridden down to Boulak, where two landings have been prepared, and richly adorned with carpets, flowers, and overhanging silken awnings. Here, at the landing where the viceroy and his generals are waiting, will the sons, and at the other, where the women stand, will the wife arrive.
The viceroy, erect in his stirrups, looks down the river, and he is the first to discover the red flags that appear above the horizon. The sight of the father is keener than that of the curious. A smile lights up his countenance, and he turns to Hassan, who stands beside him. "They are coming, Hassan; my sons are coming!"
"Yes, they are coming! The princes are coming!" cry the people. The splendid vessel approaches nearer and nearer; the flags flutter gayly in the sunshine; and now Mohammed sees the three figures, standing on the deck, waving white handkerchiefs in their outstretched hands. These are his sons. How changed the three boys seem to the father! These are no longer boys, they are now youths. It is, however, not strange that they have altered in appearance; great changes take place in five years.
The vessel lands, and his sons spring quickly to the shore. The viceroy, Mohammed Ali, had determined to make the meeting a theatrical spectacle for the people. The people love such spectacles, and they were to be permitted to look into the sanctuary of his domestic life as through a glass door. Such had been his purpose. But at the moment, all this is forgotten, and it is not the viceroy, dismounting in a stately manner from his horse to receive his sons, his first servants; it is only the father who springs with a single bound from his saddle, encircles his three sons in one embrace, presses them to his heart, and kisses them tenderly.
The people shout with delight, "Long live our viceroy and the princes!" The guns of the citadel thunder forth a greeting, and announce to the people that the viceroy no longer rules alone, but that his sons now rule with him. The welfare of the land is assured, for the existence of the ruling house is assured.
The young princes mount the horses held in readiness for them, and ride into the city bide their father. The thunder of the cannon resounds continuously, shout after shout rends the air, the band of the regiment of soldiers that had been drawn up at the landing to receive the princes, joins in the acclaim with merry strains of music, and the regiment falls into line, and marches behind the viceroy and his suite. Dense masses of people, Turks and Armenians, Copts and Jews, Arabs and fellahs, throng the streets through which they pass. On the imposing procession moves toward the citadel.
At the same time a splendid debahieh has landed at the second place; it is the wife of Mohammed Ali, who stands on the deck. No soldiers, and in fact no men, await her on the shore. A wide space about the landing is kept free by the eunuchs, who drive the curious back with threatening gestures. Hundreds of women stand on either side of the landing-place in long rows, their heads enveloped in long white veils that fall down over the splendid dresses glittering with silver embroidery.
Mohammed has commanded that all the women of Cairo should go down to Boulak to meet his wife Ada, and obey they must, they well know, for he is certain to punish disobedience to his commands. They were also to tender her presents upon their arrival at the palace.
She stands on the deck, gazing around with indifference at the spectacle before her. She is looking for him only—for her husband. But he is nowhere to be seen. He does not receive her. It would probably not become the great ruler to welcome his wife before the world. No one must perceive that the viceroy is also a husband, a man!
Yes, she has already heard of this: the heart must not be laid bare to the world, for the world ridicules it.
This is why Mohammed is not there. She draws her veil more closely about her, and, conducted by the eunuchs, descends slowly the stairway, strewed with flowers, to the landing-place, where the women press forward to greet her.
"Welcome, Sitta Ada! Blessed be your coming! Allah's blessings upon you, Sitta Ada!"
Hundreds of voices repeat the words. She is glad to escape these noisy greetings by entering the gilded coach that now drives up to the landing-place. The equipage moves on slowly, followed by the procession of women who are to accompany her to the citadel.
It is well that the curtains are drawn over the windows of the carriage, and that no one can see the tears that burst from Sitta Ada's eyes, or hear the sighs that escape her breast.
"Oh that I had remained in Cavalla! This cold splendor alarms me! Would that Mohammed had received me quietly, pressed me to his heart and said, `Welcome, Ada—welcome to my heart and home!"
Is she welcome? He rejoices in his sons, now growing up to manhood and soon to accompany him to battle and become heroes. In his joy over his sons, he has forgotten the wife who is now approaching the citadel with her brilliant suite. He is first reminded of her presence by the thunder of the guns that announce her arrival at the citadel. The reception must, however, be completed. He has arranged every thing with the master of ceremonies, who is to conduct his queen into the grand audience-chamber to the throne that stands on a scaffold under a purple canopy.
Ada's heart trembles as she approaches it, and her thoughts are with the house in Cavalla. Oh that Mohammed Ali had returned to live with her there! "Departed are all the sweets of domestic happiness for poor Ada!" a voice whispers in her heart.
The women now come forward, four at a time, and with loud congratulations lay the presents at her feet, the golden dishes, the jewelled buckles, the gold-inworked cloths, and every thing that delights the heart of woman. With kindly words Ada thanks them for their gifts, hardly realizing what they are. She thanks Allah when the affair is concluded, and the master of ceremonies approaches, and with a deferential bearing requests her to descend from the throne, and walk to the door that leads to the inner apartments. It alarms her to walk between the long rows of women who bow low as she passes. But behind the door are the private apartments, and there she will be alone. This thought cheers her as she walks on unconscious that a number of female slaves are following her to the private apartments. Those who fill such exalted stations as that of the wife of the Viceroy of Egypt, know no solitude, not even in their private apartments. The slaves now gather around her, fall on their knees, and swear to serve her faithfully, and her first maid asks if her gracious mistress will now retire to the toilet-chamber to change her dress. She dares not refuse, and allows herself to be conducted thither, where the most splendid garments lie in readiness for her. She makes no selection, but permits her women to dress her as they think proper. This is at last concluded, and one of them now announces that she may enter the private apartments, where his highness the viceroy is to receive her.
Her heart throbs wildly, like the heart of a young girl, as she enters the apartment. At the entrance she stands still, timidly. Alas! he is not yet there—the room is empty. The viceroy makes no haste to greet his wife.
The door now opens, and Mohammed Ali enters.
Ah! she would hardly have recognized him; to her he seems quite changed. His countenance is so radiant, his bearing so proud, so splendid his gold-embroidered uniform, so gracious the smile with which he advances to meet her, so gracious the manner in which he extends his hand and smiles on her.—Ada is conscious that it is the viceroy, the good friend, who stands before her; but the husband it is not.
"Welcome, dear Ada!" he says, in kindly tones. Ah! she is familiar with these loveless tones. "Welcome, dear Ada; I rejoice heartily to see you again after this long separation."
She takes his hand, presses it in her own, and looks at him earnestly.
"Yes, after so long a separation; do you know how long we have been separated? Do you feel it in your heart?"
"I well know bow long, Ada. We have been separated five years," he replies, with a kindly smile. "You see five years have effected great changes."
"Yes," murmurs she, releasing his hand. "They have brought about great changes. I see it, Mohammed."
"But, dear Ada, my heart and my affection for you are unchanged," he says, gently. "I shall ever honor you, Ada, as my first wife, as the mother of my first-born sons. Yes, as my first wife."
She bows her head. She understands the tone with which Mohammed had pronounced that fearful word. Yes, she understands it, and bows her head in humility. And what would opposition avail her? The law of the prophet allows the man to have several wives. Love is fleeting, and its ardor soon passes away after marriage. Friendship is the successor of love, and men say this is happiness.
The women sigh, and bow their heads in silence.
What would it avail Ada to rise in arms against Mohammed's words,
"My first wife"?
"Yes, Ada, you will ever remain my first wife, the honored mother of my sons. You will ever remain my friend."
Yes, that was the word. She closes her eyes and shudders.
"'Tis well. Your friend, Mohammed! I will not, however, honor you as my friend, but as my lord, and as the man I have loved alone and best on earth!"
He gently encircles her neck with his arm, and impresses a kiss on her forehead. Such a kiss as makes the heart of the woman who loves writhe in anguish.
Now he begins to speak to her, in gay tones, of his handsome, manly sons.
"They shall come to greet their mother; they are waiting in the next room."
He walks hastily to the door, opens it, and the three boys enter, each holding a small package wrapped in paper in his hand.
"What do you bring me, boys!" asks Mohammed, seating himself on a divan, and calling them to his side.
"What do we bring you, father?" says the eldest, Ibrahim. "We have brought you keepsakes from Cavalla, and with them we wish to show you that we have learned something, and have endeavored to imitate you. The merchant, Lion, has often told me how daring a boatman you were, and I determined to learn to manage a boat and defy the treacherous waves, also."
The viceroy regards his son with a radiant smile. The boy's sparkling eyes gladden his heart and inspires it with high hopes.
"I rejoice in you, Ibrahim, and expect you to become a hero," cries
Mohammed. "Continue. You were resolved to defy the waves—"
"Yes, father, and I did learn to make the waves obey me, and I became the best boatman in Praousta. I also learned to dive, and no diver could surpass me. To prove what I say, I have brought you this keepsake. I brought it up from the depths of the sea; it was tied up in a bag. I dragged it to the shore and opened it. And what do you suppose it contained, father? Only think, a skeleton! As these were the first things I had taken out of the deep as a diver I have brought you something out of the bag as a keepsake. Here it is, I— lay it at your feet."
"From the depths of the sea? " repeated the viceroy, with pallid cheeks. "Tell me, Ibrahim, were you diving off the shore of Praousta?"
"Yes, father. You know the shore is steep, and the sea deep, close in to the beach. There I dived and found the bag, with which I swam to the shore. The bag contained bones, and also that which I have brought you."
"A bag that contained a skeleton?" repeated Mohammed, with quivering lips. "And what is it you have brought me?"
"A tress of hair—a tress of long, black hair. It must have been a woman that was cast into the sea in the bag."
Mohammed does not take the package from his son's hand, and Ibrahim lays it at his feet and looks at him with astonishment. He is completely changed; his cheeks are pallid and his eyes dim. Ada also observes this change with dismay, and calls her sons to her side. Aroused by her voice, Mohammed awakens from his stupor, and waves his hand as if to ward off some spectre.
"And what have you brought me, Ismail?—and you, Toussoun?"
"We have also brought you keepsakes from Cavalla," they reply. "We endeavored to make of ourselves what you were when a boy. We were told that you had been a famous climber, that no rock was too high, and the entrance to no cave too narrow, for you. And we discovered a large cave down by the shore, near Praousta. It was necessary to creep through a long, narrow passage to get into it, and what do you think we found there? It seemed as if people had lived there—there were cushions and all sorts of things scattered around on the floor. Oh, we often enjoyed ourselves in the cave, singing songs, and eating fruit we had taken there with us. However, when we visited the cave for the last time, we determined, each of us, to bring you a keepsake from it, and here are the things we have brought. I bring you a beautiful little cup I found there."
"And I bring you a piece of cloth—a beautiful gold-embroidered cuffei which I found in the cave. It is very handsome, only there are a few spots, as though blood had dropped on it."
And, like Ibrahim, the two boys also lay the packages they had brought at their father's feet. He sits there for a moment as motionless and pale as a marble statue, and then motions with his hand toward the door. He cannot speak, he only motions to them to leave the room, and the boys hasten to their mother's side in alarm. Ada takes them by the hand and leaves the room with them.
Mohammed is now alone with his sons' offerings.
He stares down at them for a while, and then takes up the package
Ibrahim had laid at his feet.
He tears it open, and there lies Masa's long, black hair. A cry escapes his lips! It is not the viceroy, not the man, who cries out. It is the death-cry of his first love!
He presses the hair to his lips, and two tears trickle slowly down his cheeks. His gaze fastens on his Masa's hair in a long, painful glance.
He had often kissed these tresses while they clung to her beloved head. He now kisses them for the last time, and then conceals them in his bosom.
He bends down again and takes up the presents of his other sons.
He remembers the cup well. Masa had often drunk out of it.
He kisses the rim of the cup, the place where Masa's crimson lips had touched; he then carefully places it on the cushion beside him.
He now takes up the third present—the gold-embroidered cuffei he had purchased for Masa from the merchant, Lion.
She wore it around her neck for the last time when he pressed her to his heart and took leave of her for a short time, as he thought. She wore it when he left her that night, and when he returned she was gone, and he did not see her again until her death-hour.
He holds the cloth up before him, and sees the dark-red spots-her blood! She had struggled with her captor, and he had injured her shoulder, where the cloth rested, with the point of his dagger! He can tell this by the incision in the cloth where the spots of blood are.
This is Masa's blood, shed for him! He kisses the spot, and binds the cloth around his neck—the cloth she has worn, the cloth inscribed with her blood! A holy remembrance of her, he will never part with it. It shall protect him from the rude wind of the world.
He lays his hand on Masa's tresses again; he looks at the cup, and sits there motionless, absorbed in thought, for a long time.
His whole past rises up before him. He is once more at home, on the rude rock where he spent his youth.
He sees every thing once more; sees, also, the pale face of his
Osman, of his dear friend.
He is dead—his sons have told him that Osman is dead.
"It is well for him that he is, he suffered much," he murmurs, in low tones. "I, also, have suffered much. And yet I have also experienced much happiness, and shall probably do so in the future, also," he continues, in louder tones. "Sink down behind me, past! the future is mine. And now be strong, Mohammed; arise and be a man! The past is at an end! Masa, you have to-day sent me a greeting through my sons. Farewell! Now I belong to the present and to the future. Farewell!"
He rises, walks with firm footstep through the apartment, and enters the room where Ada and his sons are awaiting him.
"Come, my sons, I will show you my capital, the most beautiful of all cities—I will show you Cairo. Come!"
He takes his sons by the hand, and, alas! he forgets the poor woman who is regarding him tenderly, and down whose cheeks two tears slowly trickle as the door closes behind him.
Mohammed leads his sons through the long suite of splendid apartments, which they regard with wonder, into the grand reception- chamber, and steps out with them upon the balcony. The beautiful city of Cairo now lies spread out before them. Over there glitters the Nile, like a silver ribbon, and beyond tower aloft the wondrous forms of the great Pyramids of Gheezeh.
A cry of delight escapes the lips of the boys. "Oh, how beautiful, how glorious, father!"
"Yes, beautiful is Cairo; beautiful is Egypt, my sons. All that you see spread out before you is mine. I am the ruler of Egypt; you shall be its rulers after me, and our house shall become great and glorious. This I swear, by Allah! I will not, like my predecessors, be deposed from my throne and descend the hill on which stands the proud citadel of Cairo. I swear, by Allah, that my house shall continue to rule over Egypt, and it shall be inscribed in the books of history: 'Mohammed Ali was the first free viceroy of Egypt, and his sons succeeded him on the throne.' Swear to me, my sons, that you will one day become good and just rulers over Egypt!"
"We swear that we will, father! We will one day become good and just rulers over Egypt!" the three boys reply, as with one voice, their eyes sparkling, their countenances radiant with the light of high resolve.
"You have heard it, Allah!" cries the father, in solemn tones, his head bowed down, his right hand uplifted. "I will firmly establish the rule of my house, and my sons have sworn to become good and just rulers. Then be thou, also, our gracious ruler, and with thy great prophet, Mohammed, look down with favor upon the four human beings who stand humbly in thy presence! Not the vassal of the grand-sultan at Stamboul, but the free, independent viceroy, will I be, and after me shall my sons rule—this I swear! Seal thou my resolve with thy blessing, O Allah!"