I will build my mother a palace; she shall have
slaves and servants; all shall bow down before her as before their
mistress; none shall rule over her but Allah and the prophet."
The mother gazed in wonder at her son's excited countenance; he
seemed to her at this moment not a child, but a man, a hero.
"Yes," she murmured to herself," he will make what he says come
true: all that the dream announced and the prophetess foretold."
"What is that you are saying, mother?" asked he. "What was that
dream, what did the prophetess foretell?"
She gently shook her head. "It will not be well to tell you, my son.
Your heart is bold and passionate. And yet," she continued, after a
moment, "it may be well that you should know it; for to the daring
belongs the world, and Allah blesses those who have a passionate and
earnest heart. Sit down at my side, my son, and you shall know all."
"Speak, mother, speak--I am listening. How was the dream?"
"It was more than twelve years ago," said the mother, thoughtfully.
"At that time I was a young married woman, and was beautiful--so the
people said--for I was so poor that I could not even buy myself a
veil, and Allah and the prophets forgave me for going uncovered
before men. Then it was that your father, the Boulouk Baschi of the
police, saw me; his eye rested lovingly on the poor girl, and he did
me the honor to make me his wife, and he covered my face with a
veil, that no other man might henceforth see me.
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