Before this city, in the spacious harbor that has existed for
thousands of years, lie long rows of ships with masts, and
fluttering flags, and golden images at their bows.
Little boats dance about the ship, and all is activity and bustle.
In the interior of the land shines El-gahera, the new city, with the
palaces of the caliphs and its hundreds of minarets and temples. The
streets are alive with men of all nations; there are Turks and
Arabians, Egyptians and Europeans. The blacks of Nubia and Abyssinia
mingle with the white men of France and Germany, and the languages
of all nations are heard.
He lay on the rock, on the Ear of Bucephalus, gazing out into the
distance toward the horizon, imagining he could see these wondrous
cities. He dreamed of the glories of the world, and his fancy beheld
boats and ships, palaces and minarets.
The sea lies beneath like a blue mirror. The waves murmur in low
tones as they caress the shore. The stillness is profound, the
solitude of the first day of creation surrounds him. Suddenly a cry
resounds, a loud, piercing one, such as the eagle utters when his
young are in danger. It aroused Mohammed from his meditation.
"Strange! I heard the cry, yet I can nowhere see the eagle that
uttered it."
For the second time it resounds, louder and more piercing than
before. Mohammed shudders in his whole being.
The cry is not that of an eagle.
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