Since that day a great change had taken place in Mohammed Ali. He was graver and more silent, and participated less in the games of the boys. He no longer laughed and jested as he had formerly done, but he was all the more busily occupied with his gun, inherited from his father, exercising himself in shooting, and almost always hitting his mark. He also strengthened his limbs by fencing with his old uncle, who had formerly been a soldier, or by throwing himself into the sea, to struggle with the waves and allow himself to be buffeted about by them for hours. The boy prepared himself to become a man, and he did so with his whole soul, and with the whole strength of his will.
He often wandered in solitude among the rocks on the heights, or lingered on the beach below; and when he would return to his mother, on such occasions, she could see reflected in his countenance the great thoughts that agitated her boy's soul. He seemed to her to grow visibly taller each day; that the boy was transforming himself into a man with wonderful rapidity. She knew that this boy would become a hero; she had seen it in the expression of his eyes while relating her dream, and she comprehended the longing which filled his soul, for her soul was strong and aspiring like his, and Mohammed had inherited his ambition and strong will from his mother Khadra.
"He thinks as I should think were I a man," said Khadra to herself, as she sat on the threshold of her door regarding her son. "Neither should I be contented with our present miserable existence if I were a man. I, too, should desire to go out and struggle with the world. Alas! but I am only a poor widow, living a miserable, solitary life, awaiting the day when death shall call me, and unite me in Paradise with Ibrahim Aga, my master. But let the young eagle brood and think until his wings are grown, and then let him fly into the world out of this miserable, rocky nest. May Allah bless his purpose, and Mohammed the prophet protect him! Allah il Allah!"
While the mother was praying, and looking out wistfully into the twilight, Mohammed was sitting in his rocky cave down on the shore.
This was as yet his only possession, his palace! No one knew of this cave, discovered by the boy while wandering on the shore. He had crept into a narrow opening in the rock which he had observed among the cliffs, that was hardly large enough to admit of the passage of his slender body. He crept on his hands and knees, and noticed with delight that this opening widened into a cave. He went on, deeper and deeper into the darkness, when suddenly he saw a bright light overhead, and discovered that he was in a wide cave, lighted from above by a round opening as by a window.
Through this opening he could view the sea, and the sky above.
This cave was known to no one else, and Mohammed carefully preserved the secret of its existence.
This cave was his palace! Here he could dream of the future; here, in impenetrable solitude, he could dwell with his thoughts; from here he could look up and implore counsel from the heavens above, or look down at the foaming sea beneath, and refresh his soul with its majesty.
By degrees he had made this cave habitable. Who knows but it may be necessary to seek it as a refuge from pursuit and danger some day? Who knows but that he may be compelled to seek safety here some day from his enemies, or even from his friends?
Whatever he could spare from the little sums of money which his mother occasionally gave him, or from the presents of Mr. Lion or his old uncle, he devoted to the purchase of bedding, or some other article of furniture of the kind used in the huts of the poor. And then at night, when no one could see him, he would creep with these things into his cave, his palace of the future. Sometimes, while sitting there dreaming, the deep-blue sky looking down upon him, the sun throwing a ray of golden light through the cave, strange visions would appear to him. The cave would transform itself into a glittering palace, and the wretched mat that lay on the ground became a luxurious silken couch, on which he reclined, smoking his tschibak, while slaves stood around in reverential attitudes, ready to do his bidding. When seated on his rickety stool--a costly possession--for it had been bought with the last remnant of his money, it seemed to him that, clothed in purple, he had mounted his throne, around which wondrous strains of melody resounded. It did not occur to him that it was the murmur of the waves beating upon the rock-bound shore without; to him they were the triumphant songs of his future greeting him, the ruler.
"A ruler, a hero, a prince, he is to be," said the prophetess to his mother, and he will do what he can to fulfil this prophecy.
It was with a great effort only that he could tear himself away from such ecstatic dreams; quit his hidden paradise, and go out into the world, into reality again.
One cannot live on dreams; one must eat, too. But it annoys him that he is subjected to this wretched necessity of eating.
"If I should have nothing to eat; if I should become so poor and miserable as to have no bread, must I then die be cause I am in the habit of eating?" he would ask himself, in angry tones.
"I will learn to live without eating!" he cried, in a loud voice.
For days he would wander about in the forests and among the rocks, at a distance from all human habitations, taking no food, in order that he might accustom himself to live on little.
On one occasion he remained absent from his mother's hut two days and nights, and Khadra awaited his return in deathly anxiety. Will he never return; has she lost him, her only son, the hope of her future, the blessing of her existence?
At last, on the third day, she sees him coming; pale and exhausted, he totters toward her, and yet his bearing is defiant, and his eye sparkles.
She hurries forward with extended arms to meet him. "Where have you been, my beloved; where were you tarrying in the distance, forgetting that a mother's heart was longing for you?"
He pressed his mother's hand to his lips, looking steadfastly into her eyes. "I was with my future, Mother Khadra," said he in a low voice. "I was with the days that are to come, the days when I shall stand on the palace, a man, a hero, sword in hand, at my feet a people looking up to me imploringly. You see, mother, your dream is fulfilled, the hero who stands up there has again transformed himself into your boy! He is here and greets you."
"But why is my boy pale and exhausted?" asked Sitta Khadra, anxiously, as she clasped him in her arms.
"I don't know!" said he, wearily. "It seems to me that my feet refuse to bear me longer, that something is drawing me upward. Let us go to the hut, mother."
He grasped her arm hastily and led her away as though he were quite strong, but Khadra observed that his lips trembled, and that his face was pallid.
"He looks hungry," she murmured to herself. "Yes, I see he is hungry! Buried in his thoughts, he has again forgotten to take food."
She said no more, but walked hastily to the hut and led him in. "Son of my heart, I have been awaiting you," said she, with an innocent air. "I did not wish to partake of our simple supper until my son had come home. Let us sit down and eat. Allah bless our meal!"
It does not escape her that his eye suddenly glitters as he looks at the bread and dates brought yesterday by the boys as his tribute.
With a quick motion he stretches out his hand toward the fruit, but suddenly withdraws it, as if ashamed of himself.
"It does not become children to seat themselves before their parents, and eat before they have broken bread. Eat, mother; seat yourself, and allow your son to wait on you."
That he might not feel hurt, she seated herself quickly and took part of the fruit offered her. She handed him some, and now human nature conquered the spirit, and he heartily ate of the fruit and bread.
"Where were you, my boy? Light of my eyes, where were you?" asked the mother.
"Up there among the rocks, and below on the shore," replied he, smiling.
"Where did you find food there? I know that eagles, hawks, and doves, find their food among the rocks, but for mankind there is no food there."
"And I found none, Mother Khadra; I must learn to do with little, to conquer hunger, and I fought with it for two days. See how I am rewarded!--my food never tasted so deliciously before."
"Eat, my boy! Allah bless your food and drink! How fortunate that I have something for your thirst, too! Uncle Toussoun Aga brought me to-day a bottle of Cyprian wine, a present from Mr. Lion. You must drink of it, my boy."
He shook his head. "No, Sitta Khadra, I will not drink of the wine sent you by the noble merchant to restore your strength. Water from the well, from the spring of life, is a better drink for me. For you, the Cyprian wine, for me the spring-wine that bubbles from the rock."
He took down the gourd cup from the wall, and went out and quenched his thirst with long draughts at the spring, and then returned to his mother. He was now restored to strength and vigor; the color returned to his cheeks, and his knees no longer trembled.
"My eyes' delight, my Mohammed fresh and full of life again!" cried Mother Khadra. "Light of my life, I am glad to see you yourself again. But I beg you, my boy, not to make such cruel experiments on yourself. It is wholesome to harden the body, but not to abuse it, and you abuse your own handsome self when you torment yourself with hunger and thirst unnecessarily."
"Not unnecessarily, Mother Khadra," he replied, shaking his head. "He, only, who knows how to practise self-denial, can enjoy. At first I couldn't understand this, now I do, and have experienced it in myself. I have practised self-denial for two days, and now I have enjoyed; and thus it shall be in the future, Sitta Khadra. I shall learn to do without, in order that I may enjoy. Do not scold me for this; do not say, with the rest, that I am an obstinate boy! I am not, mother, but I must prepare myself for the future which you have announced to me. Your dream must be realized, and therefore must I do what I am doing. Let me have my way, and remember that Allah is with me everywhere. And remember this, too, mother, that wherever I may be, I shall hear your call should you need me. If, at any time when I am not here, you should need me, you have only to step out before the door, and imitate the scream of the eagle when he hovers in the air over his nest, and announces to his brood that he is coming. You recollect hearing it when we were on the cliffs together the other day. I pointed to an eagle hovering in the air, imitated his cry, and begged you to do so too. It was not done without a purpose, mother: I wished you to learn his cry, in order that you, too, might call your brood in case of need."
The mother smiled. "A strange idea! What would people think if I should step out before the door, and scream into the air in the tones of an eagle?"
"Let people think what they please, mother," said he, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "What care we? They already laugh at and mock us. But a time shall come, Sitta Khadra, when they shall bow down before you, and I only implore that Allah may permit you to live to see the time when your son shall stand on the palace, and wield his sword over humanity. Why do you sigh, mother?" he asked hastily, and what he had never before observed, suddenly occurred to him; her cheeks were sunken, and her face pale. "Why do you weep, mother?"
"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."
"The worst? What does that mean, mother? You wish to prepare me, I read it in your look; you wish to prepare me for your death! If you die, I will die, too; if you die, my whole life will I bury in the sea, and--"
He could speak no further, and heart-sick he bowed his head upon his mother's shoulder.
"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. I need 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, I should 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. I could 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.
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