In this state she awaited her husband and her son. She, too, had not seen Omar since his birth, but so many dreams had shown her what he would look like that she felt she would know him among a thousand. And now the sound of trumpets and drums and of shouts and cheers outside announced the long looked for moment. The doors flew open, and between rows of low-bending courtiers and servants the king approached the throne, leading his pretended son by the hand. “Here,” said he, “is he for whom you have been longing so many years.” But the queen interrupted him, “That is not my son!” she cried. “That is not the face the Prophet has shown me in my dreams!” Just as the king was about to reason with her, the door was thrown violently open, and Prince Omar rushed in, followed by his keepers, whom he had managed to get away from. He flung himself down before the throne, panting out, “Here will I die; kill me at once, cruel father, for I cannot bear this shame any longer.” Everyone pressed round the unhappy man, and the guards were about to seize him, when the queen, who at first was dumb with surprise, sprang up from her throne. “Hold!” cried she. “This and no other is the right one; this is the one whom my eyes have never yet seen, but whom my heart recognises.” The guards had stepped back, but the king called to them in a furious voice to secure the madman. “It is I who must judge,” he said in tones of command; “and this matter cannot be decided by women’s dreams, but by certain unmistakable signs. This one” (pointing to Labakan) “is my son, for it was he who brought me the token from my friend Elfi—the dagger.” “He stole it from me,” shrieked Omar; “he betrayed my unsuspicious confidence.” But the king would not listen to his son’s voice, for he had always been accustomed to depend on his own judgment. He let the unhappy Omar be dragged from the hall, whilst he himself retired with Labakan to his own rooms, full of anger with the queen his wife, in spite of their many years of happy life together. The queen, on her side, was plunged in grief, for she felt certain that an impostor had won her husband’s heart and taken the place of her real son. When the first shock was over she began to think how she could manage to convince the king of his mistake. Of course it would be a difficult matter, as the man who declared he was Omar had produced the dagger as a token, besides talking of all sorts of things which happened when he was a child. She called her oldest and wisest ladies about her and asked their advice, but none of them had any to give. At last one very clever old woman said: “Did not the young man who brought the dagger call him whom your majesty believes to be your son Labakan, and say he was a crazy tailor?” “Yes,” replied the queen; “but what of that?” “Might it not be,” said the old lady, “that the impostor has called your real son by his own name? If this should be the case, I know of a capital way to find out the truth.”