She
wore it when he left her that night, and when he returned she was
gone, and he did not see her again until her death-hour.
He holds the cloth up before him, and sees the dark-red spots-her
blood! She had struggled with her captor, and he had injured her
shoulder, where the cloth rested, with the point of his dagger! He
can tell this by the incision in the cloth where the spots of blood
are.
This is Masa's blood, shed for him! He kisses the spot, and binds
the cloth around his neck--the cloth she has worn, the cloth
inscribed with her blood! A holy remembrance of her, he will never
part with it. It shall protect him from the rude wind of the world.
He lays his hand on Masa's tresses again; he looks at the cup, and
sits there motionless, absorbed in thought, for a long time.
His whole past rises up before him. He is once more at home, on the
rude rock where he spent his youth.
He sees every thing once more; sees, also, the pale face of his
Osman, of his dear friend.
He is dead--his sons have told him that Osman is dead.
"It is well for him that he is, he suffered much," he murmurs, in
low tones. "I, also, have suffered much. And yet I have also
experienced much happiness, and shall probably do so in the future,
also," he continues, in louder tones. "Sink down behind me, past!
the future is mine. And now be strong, Mohammed; arise and be a man!
The past is at an end! Masa, you have to-day sent me a greeting
through my sons.
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