call him, breathing out his last remnant of strength in summoning
Mohammed to his mother. Pale, weak, and ill, he now returns to his
own hut, supported on the arm of a neighbor, and returns to die.

Mohammed has not noticed him. He springs to the door, tears it open,
and sees the women who have come to Sitta Khadra's assistance. Now
that he has come they walk out noiselessly, and wait at the door.

How long will it be before she is dead, before they can assume the
role of mourning-women, and begin their lamentations? True, Sitta
Khadra is poor, but then the community will, out of self-respect,
pay the mourning charges. Consoling themselves with this thought,
the women crouch down at the door.

Mohammed kneels beside the mat on which his mother lies, takes her
hands--now almost cold-in his own, bends over her and looks into the
widely-distended eyes that stare vacantly up at him, and sobs in
loud, heart-rending tones "Mother, Mother, Do you hear me? Here I
am, your son, Mohammed. You cannot die, for I am with you!"

The words of her son reach the mother's soul, that was already on
the point of fluttering to heaven. It returns to its poor frail
habitation. Life returns to her eyes, and a faint smile plays about
her pale lips. The mother heard her child's voice, and her soul
returned to the already stiffening body.

With a faint smile she raised her head a little to kiss his lips.

"I recognize you, my son, and I awaken once more to bid you
farewell."