The sun throws its rays far out over the waters, and over the black
spot. Again a shout and a cry resound on the shore and above on the
plateau.

Yes, it is the boat, dancing like a leaf up through the foam. The
mother and the men are waiting on the shore in breathless suspense,
as it approaches nearer and nearer. Yes, it is the boat in which
Mohammed Ali went out to sea.

Yes, it is he; he is returning!

The men and boys are now rejoicing, and the poor woman has fainted
away. While the mother's heart was in doubt, it throbbed violently
in her breast; now that she knows her child is returning, it stands
still with joy and delight.

The women, who had vainly endeavored to console her, have now come
to recall the mother to consciousness, and to cheer her with joyous
words.

"Your son returns! Allah has protected him! The ghins had no power
over him, his agathodaemon watched over him! Allah be praised, Allah
is great!"

The boat comes on dancing over the water. The boy stands alone, no
one to assist him in wielding his oar. He holds it firmly grasped in
his hands, using it lustily, and steering in defiance of the waves
toward the shore. And now the men hasten forward to his assistance.
They throw long ropes to him, and hail their success with a shout of
joy, when one of them happily falls into the boy's boat. The latter