"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?