"No, mother, it is impossible, you cannot leave me!" said he, in
such loud and piercing tones that the mourning-women at the door
heard it and whispered to each other: "That was a good cry; we could
do no better ourselves."

"Son of my heart," whispered Khadra, and the mother employed her
last strength to force her cold lips to speak and to recall the
thoughts already struggling to take wing--" son of my Ibrahim, do
not grieve for me! I have been dying these many days, I have long
struggled with Death. He stood at the door ready to take me, but I
thrust him back that I might see my son, my darling, once more."

"O mother, mother! you are breaking my heart," cried Mohammed, and
his head sank heavily upon his mother's shoulder.

"Be brave, my son, I entreat you with my last breath! Be brave, be a
man, and consider my dream with the eye of your soul. Make it
reality! Make of the poor, disconsolate boy who stands here the hero
of the future, as I saw you in my visions in the nights before you
were born! I saw a crown on your head and a sword glittered in your
hand. And I see the future now, too; and I will tell you what I see,
my son: I see you, your son, and your grandson! They shall all wear
crowns, shall sit on one throne, and the nations shall lie in the
dust before them! My soul has returned to announce this to you."

"If your soul has returned," said he, in tones of earnest entreaty,
"then command it to remain with you! Life will be solitary and
desolate without you. You are the only woman I love. If you go, take
me with you, and tell the prophet, if he be angry, that I could be