When he had imitated him in a loud, shrill voice, Mohammed smiled
and nodded approvingly.
"That will do. And if I should be ever so distant and hear this cry,
I will come home to mother. But tell me, Uncle Toussoun Aga, tell
me, by all that is holy, by the prophet and by the name of Allah,
tell me the truth: is my mother ill?"
Toussoun Aga's countenance assumed a very grave expression, and he
looked down confused.
"Answer me!" cried Mohammed, vehemently. "Is my mother ill? In the
name of the prophet, I command you to tell me the truth!"
"Do not demand it, son of my beloved brother, Ibrahim Aga," said the
old man, sorrowfully. "It does not become man to pry into the
mysteries of Allah. We are all in Allah's hand, and what be
determines must be, and we should not attempt to look into the
future."
"Yet tell me--and may Allah forgive me for wishing to look into the
future--is my mother ill?"
"She looks pale," murmured the old man. "When she walks her breath
is short, and, when she gives me her hands in greeting, I feel them
burn as though fire flowed in her veins. But it may pass away,
nephew. She may recover; she is still weak from her former illness;
you recollect the severe fever she had? But she will recover, and
for this purpose Mr. Lion sent her the strengthening wine; it will
do her good, and she will get better."
"Yes, she will get better," said the boy.
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