The years went by with muffled feet, bringing no balm to the heart of the bereaved mother. The cruel way in which her child had been torn from her arms by the unnatural father, to suffer a still more cruel fate, had left a wound in her heart that her husband’s later kindness had no power to heal. The father, too, was ashamed of his own brutality, but too cowardly to confess his fault, no word of repentance had ever passed his lips. The only sign of remorse was seen upon his head, for the dark locks of the Persian chieftain had grown as silvery white as the hair of the banished child. His sleep was disturbed, and he was haunted night after night by strange and troubled dreams. One night there flashed before his vision a gallant youth of martial bearing, who rode at the head of a troop of horsemen, with banners flying before him, and coming into the warrior’s presence, he cried: “Unfeeling mortal, hast thou from thine eyes Washed out all sense of shame? Dost thou believe That to have silvery tresses is a crime? See thine own head is covered with white hair, And were not both spontaneous gifts from heaven?” Suwār awoke with a scream and called the astrologers around him. They declared that the boy was still alive, and in the early morning the father went to the lonely mountain, and climbing into its cliffs as far as possible, he bemoaned his child and prayed for his return. His cry went up to the wondrous nest amidst the stones of fire, and the Sīmūrgh shook her golden plumage as she looked lovingly down upon the white- haired child that played with unpolished gems upon the cliffs beneath her. Rising from her nest, she nestled down beside him, and while he stroked her feathers, she caressed him with her beak, and said: “I have fed and protected thee, but now the Persian warrior has come for his boy, and I must give thee up.” The child wept and flung his arms around the soft neck of his foster mother, but the Sīmūrgh told him it were better so, and taking from her wing one golden plume, she gave it to him with the promise that she would not desert him. “Take this,” said she, “and when thou art in danger put the feather upon the fire, and I will instantly come to thine aid.” Then the Sīmūrgh took the boy carefully in her talons and in graceful circles she slowly swept down toward the wondering father. “Receive thy son,” said the wondrous bird. “He is worthy of a throne and diadem.” Then the repentant father gladly caught his rescued boy in his arms, and bore him exultingly homeward, where he placed him in the glad arms of his mother, who wept tears of joy over the white-haired child. The beautiful plume was laid carefully away as one of the treasures of the household, to be used by the boy only in times of greatest need.