The viceroy, erect in his stirrups, looks down the river, and he is
the first to discover the red flags that appear above the horizon.
The sight of the father is keener than that of the curious. A smile
lights up his countenance, and he turns to Hassan, who stands beside
him. "They are coming, Hassan; my sons are coming!"
"Yes, they are coming! The princes are coming!" cry the people. The
splendid vessel approaches nearer and nearer; the flags flutter
gayly in the sunshine; and now Mohammed sees the three figures,
standing on the deck, waving white handkerchiefs in their
outstretched hands. These are his sons. How changed the three boys
seem to the father! These are no longer boys, they are now youths.
It is, however, not strange that they have altered in appearance;
great changes take place in five years.
The vessel lands, and his sons spring quickly to the shore. The
viceroy, Mohammed Ali, had determined to make the meeting a
theatrical spectacle for the people. The people love such
spectacles, and they were to be permitted to look into the sanctuary
of his domestic life as through a glass door. Such had been his
purpose. But at the moment, all this is forgotten, and it is not the
viceroy, dismounting in a stately manner from his horse to receive
his sons, his first servants; it is only the father who springs with
a single bound from his saddle, encircles his three sons in one
embrace, presses them to his heart, and kisses them tenderly.
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