The procession at length reached the Sultan’s capital, where everything had been prepared for their reception with even greater splendour than in the other towns. The Sultana, an elderly and dignified lady, awaited them with her entire court in the most magnificent room in the palace. The floor of the apartment was covered with an enormous carpet and the walls were hung with pale blue cloth, draped with golden cords and tassels which hung from silver hooks. As it was already dark when the procession reached the palace, the room was lighted with innumerable many-coloured lamps, the light from which turned night into day. Beneath the brightest light the Sultana sat upon her throne, which was raised upon four steps and was of pure gold set with amethysts. The four most distinguished emirs held a canopy of red silk over her head, and the Sheik of Medina fanned her with a fan of peacock’s feathers. Thus the Sultana awaited the coming of the son she had not seen since his birth, although in her dreams he had been frequently present with her, so that she felt certain she would know him again in the midst of thousands. Presently the noise of the approaching procession was heard, and before long the curtains were drawn aside and the Sultan approached his wife, leading his supposed son by the hand. “Here I bring you the son you have yearned for so long,” he cried. But the Sultana would not allow him to proceed--“That is not my son,” said she. “Those are not the features the Prophet allowed me to gaze on in my dreams.” Just as the Sultan was about to reprove her for her superstition, the door burst open and in dashed the rightful prince, who had managed to escape from his guards. Breathlessly he flung himself before the throne and cried: “Slay me here if you will, O cruel father, for this shame will I bear no longer.” All present were astounded at his words, and the guards would once more have seized the unfortunate prince, but the Sultana stepped forward and, gazing at him earnestly, cried: “Stay, this is my rightful son, this is he whom my eyes have never rested on since his birth, but whom my heart recognises nevertheless.” The guards drew back involuntarily; but the Sultan cried to them in wrath to seize the madman. “It is for me to decide,” he said angrily. “Of what worth are the dreams of a woman beside the real token which this, my son, brought me from my friend Elfi Bey. He who brought the dagger is the rightful heir.” “It was stolen,” cried Omar furiously. “He betrayed my confidence with treachery and stole the dagger.”