No one saw the cautious sarechsme,
closely enveloped in his mantle, wend his way hastily through the
narrow alleys to a little house that stood alone in the outskirts of
the city. He crossed the threshold without meeting any one. All was
still in the dark, narrow passage. He opened the door of the
chamber. On a mat sat an old woman, weaving woolen cloth.
"Are you the mother of Kachef Youssouf?" asked the sarechsme.
She turned around. "Yes, I am. You have not come to arrest my son?
He has not gone out to battle, he remains in Cairo, and is the
faithful servant of his gracious mistress, Sitta Nefysseh."
"That I know. I have not come on a hostile errand, but merely to
speak to him. Where is he?"
"Where he always is, master, with his gracious mistress. If you wish
it, I will call him; a door opens from this house into Sitta
Nefysseh's park, and I know where my son is to be found."
"Then call him quickly."
The old woman hastened away. In a short time she returned with her
son Youssouf.
"Do you know me?" asked Mohammed, advancing to meet him.
"Yes, who does not know the brave sarechsme, Mohammed Ali?"
"Do you love your mistress? " asked Mohammed
Youssouf looked at him with an expression of dismay and anxiety.
"I mean, you love her as it beseems every faithful servant to love
his mistress-you are ready to do her every service?"
"Yes, sarechsme, so do I love her," replied Youssouf, in low tones.
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