"You are not yourself, poor boy," said she, gently, as she bathed his forehead with water; "you see the body still governs the mind, and long fasting has made you weak. Remember this, my boy. To keep the mind vigorous you must give the body nourishment; if you had not fasted for two days, you would not weep now. Not because you are alarmed, but because you are weak, do you weep."He understood these words of heroism; he understood that maternal love had given her strength to console him with these quiet, matter-of-fact utterances. He tenderly kissed her hands, murmuring: "Sitta Khadra, you are a heroine, and I will learn from you to be a hero."They sat in each other's embrace for a long time, silent, and yet they were speaking to each other with their thoughts and souls, and understood what soul said to soul, and heart to heart. Often, after long years, will the son still think of this hour when he sat by his mother's side, in solitude and silence, his head resting on her bosom--in his glittering palace will he still think of it? In the fulness of his magnificence, with the soul's eye, will he look into this poor, dark little chamber will he longingly think of his mother, of his first and holiest love?
"Promise me, Mohammed," said she, after a long silence, "promise me that you will never fast and torture yourself so long again.""I promise you, Sitta Khadra," he replied in a low voice, "you are right; the body must be strengthened that the soul may be strong. Ineed a strong body that I may be able to climb the rocky pathway of life to the summit, to the eagle's eyry, far above the lowliness of life. I promise you, mother, that from this day I will no longer torture my body, but it shall be taught to defy want, and to subordinate itself to the mind. Do not scold, Mother Khadra, if I am often away from you. In solitude I learn. I converse with the invisible spirits that hover about me in the air. They teach me wondrous things, which I cannot relate to you to-day, but which help me to prepare for the future. Do not forget, mother, when I am away from you, and you need me, to call me with the eagle's cry."A faint smile trembled on her lips. "If, however, son of my heart, Ishould be unable to utter this cry, if my voice should be too weak to reach you-"He again regarded her with an anxious, inquiring look. "Can that be, Sitta Khadra? Do you believe your voice can become so weak?""Be reassured, my son; I neither believe nor fear it, but yet it might be.""Yes, it might be," said he, passing his trembling hand across his brow. "I shall go to Uncle Toussoun Aga and tell him how to call me.
Only promise me, mother, that, if you need me, and are not able to call yourself, you will send for uncle and tell him to do so. Icould otherwise have no peace; could not attend to my work and occupation, unless I knew that you would have me called to you when you need me.""It shall be so, my son. When I need you, you shall be called, and now do not allow yourself to be disturbed in your occupations. Fly out, young eagle, out into the air, out among the rocks, and learn from heaven and earth what to do to prepare for your future."She kissed his brow and laid her hand on his head in a blessing.
Mohammed kissed this hand, and then sprang to his feet and went to his old uncle Toussoun Aga. With perfect gravity he begged permission to teach him the eagle's cry, that he might be able to call him when his mother should need him.
The old man looked up from the fishing-nets, at which he was working, in utter bewilderment. "What possesses you, Mohammed Ali?
What an idea to take into your head, to train the old fellow who is good for nothing but to make nets for the fishermen, in which they catch the red mareles and the blue flyers--to train this old fellow to imitate the eagle and scream like the king of the air!""And yet you must learn to cry like this same eagle, uncle!" With resistless force he drew his uncle from his mat, and almost compelled him to go up with him to the verge of the rock. High above where the cliff projects far out into the sea, there, with a serious air, Mohammed taught his uncle the eagle's cry.
At first his uncle refused to imitate him and utter the cry as directed, but Mohammed regarded him with so wild and angry a look, and then entreated him in such soft and tender tones to do it for his dear mother's sake, whose call would, perhaps, be too weak to reach him, that the old man could at last no longer refuse.
When he had imitated him in a loud, shrill voice, Mohammed smiled and nodded approvingly.
"That will do. And if I should be ever so distant and hear this cry, I will come home to mother. But tell me, Uncle Toussoun Aga, tell me, by all that is holy, by the prophet and by the name of Allah, tell me the truth: is my mother ill?"Toussoun Aga's countenance assumed a very grave expression, and he looked down confused.
"Answer me!" cried Mohammed, vehemently. "Is my mother ill? In the name of the prophet, I command you to tell me the truth!""Do not demand it, son of my beloved brother, Ibrahim Aga," said the old man, sorrowfully. "It does not become man to pry into the mysteries of Allah. We are all in Allah's hand, and what be determines must be, and we should not attempt to look into the future.""Yet tell me--and may Allah forgive me for wishing to look into the future--is my mother ill?""She looks pale," murmured the old man. "When she walks her breath is short, and, when she gives me her hands in greeting, I feel them burn as though fire flowed in her veins. But it may pass away, nephew. She may recover; she is still weak from her former illness;you recollect the severe fever she had? But she will recover, and for this purpose Mr. Lion sent her the strengthening wine; it will do her good, and she will get better.""Yes, she will get better," said the boy. "It is impossible she should die, for I should then be entirely alone in the world.""Entirely alone?" asked the old man, regarding him reproachfully.
"As long as Toussoun Aga lives, his nephew, Mohammed Ali, is not entirely alone."Mohammed held out his hand. "Thanks, uncle." He nodded to the old man, turned away, and sprang off over the rocks with such rapid bounds that old Toussoun looked after him in amazement.
"He leaps like a gazelle. Light is his step, and splendid his figure. How long will he still bless his mother's sight? how long shall my old eyes be gladdened by this young gazelle, this young eagle?"The old man bowed his head upon his breast, and two tears trickled slowly down his cheeks.
