He creeps to the entrance, and is so weak that he can hardly pass through the opening, which he had formerly made still narrower, that no one might discover it. He is so weak that he can scarcely stand upright; his swollen lips are bleeding; his brain is burning, and he sinks down upon a rock. A kindly voice now calls him. He hears it, but lacks the strength to answer.
"Mohammed! Mohammed!" is heard again, and now the merchant, Lion, approaches from behind a projecting rock. He had seen the boy, but knowing his proud heart, and fearing to put him to shame by showing himself, and saying that he came to his assistance, he had lingered behind the rock.
He now kneels down beside the boy, bends over him, kisses his lips, and whispers loving words in his ear.
"Poor child, Your mother, who loved you so tenderly, would weep bitterly if she could see you in this condition. Poor boy, you must strengthen yourself. I know you have eaten nothing, and I have brought you food."He drew a bottle from his pocket, and poured a little wine on his lips. Mohammed tried to resist, but the body was stronger than the will. He greedily swallows the wine, and, without knowing it, asks for more. The merchant smiles approvingly, and pours a little more on his lips, and then gives him a small piece of white bread that he had brought with him, and rejoices when he sees Mohammed breathing with renewed life.
"What are you doing?" he murmured. "I must die, that I may go to my mother."The merchant stooped down lower over the boy, and kissed him. "Your mother, who loves you so dearly, sends you this kiss, through me.
She confided to me that she must die, and I promised her that Iwould bring you a kiss from her whenever I saw you. With this kiss she commands you to be brave and happy throughout life."And, as he ceased speaking, he inclined his head and kissed him a second time.
Now, as he receives this kiss from his mother, the tears suddenly burst from his eyes and pour down his cheeks, hot tears, and yet they cool and alleviate the burning pains of his soul.
"You weep," said the merchant, whose own cheeks were wet with grief.
"Weep on, pain must have its relief in tears, and even a man need not be ashamed of them."He sat down beside Mohammed, drew him close to his side, supporting the boy's head on his bosom, and spoke to him of his dear mother.
"Nor are you poor, Mohammed. Your mother returned to me your love-offering, together with other sums she had saved. I have fifty gold-pieces for you. Yes, fifty glittering gold-pieces! You can now dress better than formerly, until provision is made for your future; and, if you should need advice or assistance, come to me. You know that Iam your friend. And now, be happy and courageous; remember that poor Sitta Khadra has suffered much, and let her be at rest now. Another friend is awaiting you above on the rock; will you go up to him?""It is Osman, is it not?" asked Mohammed, as be dried his eyes. "Am I not right?"The merchant inclined his head. "He could not come down the steep path, or he would be here now.""I will go to him; I know he loves me. He will not laugh when he sees that I have been weeping."No, Osman did not laugh. When he saw his friend coming, he advanced to meet him with extended arms, and they embraced each other tenderly, tears standing in the eyes of both.
All was still; nothing could be heard but the murmur of the sea, and the rustling of the wind.
The merchant, who had at first stood in silence beside the two, now walked noiselessly away.
They love each other, and what they have to say, no one else should hear.
Mohammed stands up and dries his eyes; he wishes to be composed.
Osman holds out his hand:
"Your mother is dead, but she survives in your friends, and your mother and your friend now extend the hand to you. Mohammed, come with me to my house, for my house is yours, too. I will not have you remain alone; you must come with me."Mohammed shook his head gravely. "It cannot be--I will not become a slave!""Come, out of love for me. Not as my slave, but as my friend. Oh, Iam so lonely, and you are the only one who loves, and can console, poor, sickly Osman.""I will come to you!" exclaimed Mohammed, drawing his friend to his bosom. "Even as a slave would I come, for I should be my friend's slave. I will come to you."
