"I know not, my son. I only fear the time is yet far distant when Mohammed Ali shall stand on the palace with uplifted sword, the nations bowed down before him! I am only afraid I shall not live to see this time." "Are you ill, mother; are you ill?" cried the boy, anxiously and tenderly. He rushed to her, clasped her in his arms, and fixed his brown eyes on hers with an earnest, anxious look. "Tell me--I conjure you in the name of the prophet--tell me, are you ill, Sitta Khadra?" She forced herself to regard him with a smile. "No, light of my eyes! beloved of my soul! When I see you, I am not ill; when I see and hear you, my heart is in health and at rest, and--" "You have no disease, no pains?" asked her son, interrupting her. "Your cheeks are pale, and your lips tremble. Tell me, nothing ails you, you are quite well?" "Quite well, my beloved, and nothing ails me. All that is wanting in my poor life is the moment when you shall have become a great man, honored by men, and blessed by Allah." "Honored by men, I will become; the blessing of Allah you shall implore down upon my head, mother! You must only remain in health to see me in my grandeur. You will not pain me, mother, by falling ill, and following my father Ibrahim Aga, before you can say to him, --My dream is realized, and your son Mohammed has become a great and mighty hero,' will you? Leave me not too soon, mother; promise to remain with me on earth until the prophecy is fulfilled." "Dear boy!" said she, with a sad smile. "How can the poor child of earth promise what Allah must alone decide? We must walk as Allah directs, and submit to his will. with humility, for thus it is written in the Koran: --Before the great God who sits enthroned above the stars, bow thy head in humility; Allah determines, and man shall obey in pious submission. So must we, my boy! Man is mortal, and passes away; as the withered leaf is wafted away by the wind and perishes, so the storm wind of life seizes upon man and destroys him." "But not you, not you, mother!" cried the boy, fiercely grasping his mother's shoulders in childish anger." No, I will not believe it, and it shall not be! The storm shall not destroy you, for you must live to see your son great and mighty, that he may recompense you for your days of sorrow and suffering." "You hurt me," said his mother, gently releasing her shoulders from his grasp. Mohammed burst into tears that poured down his cheeks in streams. The mother kissed them away. "My son, pearl of my existence!--only light in life's night!--my beloved son, what would I be without you? what should I do in the dark night without the luster of this star? I kiss these eyes, son of my heart, and bless you with Allah's blessing! Be strong and brave, my son, and weep not! Leave tears to women. You are a man in spite of your thirteen years, therefore weep not; even though the worst should befall, weep not."