Then the young man could contain himself no longer. Tears of joy rushed to his eyes and he threw himself at the Sheik’s feet and cried: “But it was your son, Kairam, or Almansor, for it was you who purchased him.” The Sheik stood speechless, staring at the youth’s handsome face. “Mustapha,” said he to the old Dervish, “my eyes are dimmed with a veil of tears so that I can see nothing. Tell me, does this youth indeed resemble my son Kairam?” The aged Dervish approached and, laying his hand upon the young man’s forehead, said: “Kairam, what was the text I taught you the very day you were taken away to the Frankish camp?” “My dear master,” said the youth, pressing his lips to the Dervish’s hand, “it was this: ‘He who loves Allah and has a good conscience, though he were in the desert of misery, is never alone, for he has two companions who walk beside him and comfort him.’” Then the Dervish placed the young man in the Sheik’s arms. “Take him,” he said, “for so surely as you have mourned your son as lost, so surely is he found again.” The Sheik was beside himself with joy, and all present joined in his delight for they loved him dearly and shared in his happiness as they had shared his grief. Once more the house resounded with songs of joy and mirth, as it had been wont to do. Again the youth was pressed to tell his story with still more minute details, and all united to praise the Arabian professor and the Emperor and everyone who had shown kindness towards the young man. The gathering did not break up until quite late at night, and before they left the Sheik presented each of his friends with some rich gift, that he might always have cause to remember the joyful day. THE STORY OF THE FLORIN. In Upper Suabia stands to this very day the ruins of a castle that was once the most stately in the whole neighbourhood, namely, that of Hohenzollern. It is built upon the summit of a steep hill, from the rugged heights of which the surrounding country can be viewed far and wide. But, further than the eye can travel, throughout the most remote parts of Germany, the race of Hohenzollern was ever known, feared and respected. [Illustration: _Stormy Weather Zollern._ (P. 182.)] Hundreds of years ago there lived in this solitary stronghold one of the race who, it is true, was feared, but also distrusted by all, although it could not be actually said of him that he oppressed his subjects or lived at open enmity with his neighbours. Few besides the inhabitants of the castle had ever heard him speak a civil word, for if he rode through the valley and chanced to meet anyone who raised his cap and said: “Good evening, Count, what fine weather we are having,” he would reply in surly tones, “Rubbish!” or “I know that already.”