"He is always so proud, and thinks himself something better than the rest of us," murmured the boy, "though he is something worse, and may some day be a beggar if--"

The storm now began to rage more furiously; the waves towered higher, and threw their spray far on to the shore and high upon the rock, as though determined to make known its dread majesty to the inhabitants of the city of Cavalla, which stands with its little houses, narrow streets, and splendid mosque, on the plateau of the rock of Bucephalus. On the summit of the rock a woman is kneeling, her hands extended imploringly toward heaven; she has allowed the white veil to fall from her face, and her agonized features are exposed to view, regardless of the law that permits her to reveal her countenance in the harem only. What are the laws to her? where is the man to command her to veil her countenance? who says to her: "You belong to me, and my heart glows with jealousy when others behold you"?

No one is there who could thus address her; for she is a widow, and calls nothing on earth her own, and loves nothing on earth but her son, her Mohammed Ali.

She knows that he has gone out to sea in a frail skiff to cross over to the island-rock Imbro. The boys have told her of the daring feat which her son had undertaken with them. Filled with anxiety, they had come up to the widow of Ibrahim to announce that her son had refused to return with them after they had started in their fisher- boats for the island of Imbro. "I have begun it and I'll carry it out," the proud boy had replied to them. "You have ridiculed me, and think yourselves better oarsmen than I, and now you shall see that I alone shall cross over to Imbro, while you cowardly return when the storm begins to rage."

This was his reply, and in their anxiety they had repeated it to his mother Khadra, telling her, at the same time, that they were innocent of her son's misdeed, and had begged him in his mother's name to return with them. There she kneels on the brow of the rock, gazing out upon the water, imploring Allah to restore her son, and conjuring the raging sea to bear back her child to the shore.

The mother's entreaties are ardent, and strong is her prayer to Allah and to Nature.

The ghins, the evil spirits themselves, hold their breath and flap their black wings more gently when they rustle past the spot where a mother weeps and prays for her son!

But a tear drops from the eyes of the good spirits when they meet such a mother, and this tear is potent to save her child. Perhaps at this moment an agathodaemon has flown by, has seen the agonized mother, and has let fall a tear upon the waters, for at this moment they become more tranquil. Perhaps the ghins have suddenly been swept away by the whirlwind, Zeboah, for the storm is now hushed.

The storm is stilled, though from time to time its mighty breath is again heard; and then it is again mute, and the waves roll in upon the shore less furiously. The sky, too, begins to grow clear. The sun looks out from between the clouds, and throws a long golden streak of light across the waves, as if to conciliate with its smile the foaming sea, and smooth its furrowed brow.

Now, a single, mighty cry resounds from above, from the place where the mother is kneeling. It seems to find its echo here below on the shore where the men and boys are standing. It is a cry of joy, of ecstasy. And all hands are raised and pointed across the water to the spot where the island-rock, Imbro, must lie. It is not visible; the waves have surged over it, as they always do when the storm rages, but they know that it must lie there. And there--a black spot! It dances on the waves, and is lifted above the white spray. The sun throws its rays far out over the waters, and over the black spot. Again a shout and a cry resound on the shore and above on the plateau.

Yes, it is the boat, dancing like a leaf up through the foam. The mother and the men are waiting on the shore in breathless suspense, as it approaches nearer and nearer. Yes, it is the boat in which Mohammed Ali went out to sea.

Yes, it is he; he is returning!

The men and boys are now rejoicing, and the poor woman has fainted away. While the mother's heart was in doubt, it throbbed violently in her breast; now that she knows her child is returning, it stands still with joy and delight.

The women, who had vainly endeavored to console her, have now come to recall the mother to consciousness, and to cheer her with joyous words.

"Your son returns! Allah has protected him! The ghins had no power over him, his agathodaemon watched over him! Allah be praised, Allah is great!"

The boat comes on dancing over the water. The boy stands alone, no one to assist him in wielding his oar. He holds it firmly grasped in his hands, using it lustily, and steering in defiance of the waves toward the shore. And now the men hasten forward to his assistance. They throw long ropes to him, and hail their success with a shout of joy, when one of them happily falls into the boy's boat. The latter grasps the end thrown to him, and holds it firmly. The men draw the rope and thus force the boat to the shore, and, as it touches the rock, ten arms grasp it and hold it securely. With a single bound the boy leaps ashore.

His face is perfectly calm; his eyes, lustrous as stars, show no traces of terror; they are fixed on the men with a kindly glance, but they darken as he turns to the boys.

"You see, my boys," said he, with a calm and at the same time threatening expression, "I have won my wager! Here is the proof that I was over there. The knife that Ibrahim lost there yesterday, I bring back to him. Here it is!"

He takes the knife out of his jacket, thoroughly drenched with water, and throws it down before the boys. "I have won my wager! You men are witnesses of my triumph! Each boy is bound to pay me tribute from to-day. Each one must furnish me, twice a week, with the best peaches and dates from his garden, and when we go out to the chase they must obey me, and acknowledge me to be their captain."

What triumph shone in his eyes, what an expression of energy in the bearing of a boy scarcely ten years old!

"That was it!" exclaimed Toussoun Aga, in a reproachful tone. "For this reason my brother's son risked his life, and caused his mother and all of us so much anxiety.--Allah forgive you! You are a wild, defiant boy."

"No, uncle," cried the boy; "no, I am not wild and defiant. They ridiculed me, and said I was not as good as they, could do nothing, didn't even know how to steer a boat. And then we laid a wager, and I won my wager; and they shall pay the tribute, and acknowledge me to be their captain. I call all you men to witness that I am the captain of the boys of Cavalla."

The men looked at each other, amused and astonished at the same time. He speaks like a child, and yet haughtily, like a monarch. His words are childish, and yet so full of energy. And many of them thought they could read in the book of the future that a great destiny awaited the poor boy Mohammed Ali. "He is poor, to be sure, and will have much hard fighting to do with the storms of life. May the same success he has met with against the storms of the sea to- day also attend him hereafter against the storms of life!"

Toussoun Aga stretches out his hand to take that of his nephew Mohammed, to lead him to the rock above, to his mother, but the boy quickly rejects the proffered assistance.

"I can ascend the rock to my mother alone; I am not weak and terrified, uncle. Go on, I will follow."

And, as he says this, he crosses his hands behind his back. The rest now cry out:

"Look at his hands! Look, they are bleeding!"

Toussoun now takes the boy's hands in his own, against his will, and opens them. They are covered with blood, that oozes out of the raw flesh.

"It is nothing," said the boy; "nothing at all. I had to hold fast to the oar, the skin stuck to it, and that made my hands bleed."

The men gaze on him admiringly, and whisper to each other: "He is a hero, if he is only ten years old." And they respectfully step back, and allow the boy to pass on up the rocky path that leads to Cavalla.

CHAPTER II

MOTHER AND S0N.

"Here he is again, Sitta Khadra. I bring your son," said Toussoun Aga, as he entered, with the boy, the hut into which some kind- hearted women had brought Mohammed's mother. "Scold the naughty youth well, and tell him what anxiety he has caused us all."

Sitta Khadra, however, did not scold him, but only extended her open arms, drew her son to her bosom with a joyous cry, and kissed him tenderly. Toussoun gazed smilingly at the two, and then noiselessly left the hut.

"It is best to leave them alone, that Allah only may hear what the mother says to her son," he murmured, as he returned to his own hut, where he industriously began to apply himself to making fishing- nets, with which occupation he earned his livelihood.

Now that Mohammed was left alone with his mother, the boy who was always so reserved and timid in the presence of others, knelt down before her, and entreated her tenderly not to be angry with him for having made her anxious.

"But you see, mother, it had to be done," said he, excitedly and imploringly at the same time, "else they would have ridiculed me again as they so often do."