But it seemed as though his footsteps were clogged, as though an invisible hand held him back, and compelled him to remain a while longer on this spot where he had stood with Masa. And now it seemed to him that her form suddenly arose from her cold grave in the waves over there beyond the cliffs. She was arrayed in purple, her starlike eyes were fixed on him, and her long hair enveloped her beloved form as with a golden veil, the water dripping from her like glittering pearls. It gradually arose out of the waters. He had seen such visions, such fata morgana, that appeared not unfrequently on this coast, many a time, and had hitherto smiled at such illusions. But today he forgot his knowledge and experience, and the illusion was to him reality. He stretched out his arms, and gazed at the heavenly picture that had risen out of the waves, and his lips whispered in longing accents: "Masa, come to me; let the water that drips from you fall on my burning heart, soothe my anguish; speak to me of my future, and tell me what you desire me to do. Oh, speak to me, Masa!" Enraptured, he still gazed out into the air at the sweet vision that rose higher and higher out of the waves. At last it stretched out its arms over him, and a cold breath kissed his lips! After a long pause, he opened his eyes again. Had he been dreaming? Was it reality? He lay on the rock alone in the morning light of the sun. The image had disappeared, and silence surrounded him, profound silence. And in this silence Mohammed formed his last, his decisive resolve. As he lay there, he had entreated Allah to deliver him, by death, from this tormenting struggle, this doubt. The hour of irresolution had now passed, and he felt strengthened with renewed life. He looked up at the heavens; and a hitherto undreamed of world seemed to lie open before him. He looked out into the purple distance, and he seemed to be hold the minarets, and temples, and mountains, and plains of a new land. Was he never to reach this land? Were all the dreams of his youth to come to naught, and the prophecies made by the woman who had told his mother that he was to be a hero, to remain unfulfilled? And was Masa to remain unavenged in her cold grave? He has duties to fulfil toward wife and children. But revenge is also a sacred duty, and he has sworn to himself a thousand times, that he will perform this duty. Vengeance for Masa! Vengeance on him! The hour has come! Grasp the occasion! He may fail in his career, but, if successful, his success will be great, divine. It will be heavenly, if he must die, to fall on the field of battle amid the roar of artillery, and the clash of arms. Such a death were far preferable to a life like that he now leads, protracted through long, weary years. Who has brought about this struggle, and implanted these aspirations in his breast? It is Allah's work! In his early youth, his mother had told him of her dreams, and hope for