She kissed his brow and laid her hand on his head in a blessing.

Mohammed kissed this hand, and then sprang to his feet and went to his old uncle Toussoun Aga. With perfect gravity he begged permission to teach him the eagle's cry, that he might be able to call him when his mother should need him.

The old man looked up from the fishing-nets, at which he was working, in utter bewilderment. "What possesses you, Mohammed Ali?

What an idea to take into your head, to train the old fellow who is good for nothing but to make nets for the fishermen, in which they catch the red mareles and the blue flyers--to train this old fellow to imitate the eagle and scream like the king of the air!"

"And yet you must learn to cry like this same eagle, uncle!" With resistless force he drew his uncle from his mat, and almost compelled him to go up with him to the verge of the rock. High above where the cliff projects far out into the sea, there, with a serious air, Mohammed taught his uncle the eagle's cry.

At first his uncle refused to imitate him and utter the cry as directed, but Mohammed regarded him with so wild and angry a look, and then entreated him in such soft and tender tones to do it for his dear mother's sake, whose call would, perhaps, be too weak to reach him, that the old man could at last no longer refuse.

When he had imitated him in a loud, shrill voice, Mohammed smiled and nodded approvingly.

"That will do. And if I should be ever so distant and hear this cry, I will come home to mother. But tell me, Uncle Toussoun Aga, tell me, by all that is holy, by the prophet and by the name of Allah, tell me the truth: is my mother ill?"

Toussoun Aga's countenance assumed a very grave expression, and he looked down confused.

"Answer me!" cried Mohammed, vehemently. "Is my mother ill? In the name of the prophet, I command you to tell me the truth!"

"Do not demand it, son of my beloved brother, Ibrahim Aga," said the old man, sorrowfully. "It does not become man to pry into the mysteries of Allah. We are all in Allah's hand, and what be determines must be, and we should not attempt to look into the future."

"Yet tell me--and may Allah forgive me for wishing to look into the future--is my mother ill?"

"She looks pale," murmured the old man. "When she walks her breath is short, and, when she gives me her hands in greeting, I feel them burn as though fire flowed in her veins. But it may pass away, nephew. She may recover; she is still weak from her former illness; you recollect the severe fever she had? But she will recover, and for this purpose Mr. Lion sent her the strengthening wine; it will do her good, and she will get better."

"Yes, she will get better," said the boy. "It is impossible she should die, for I should then be entirely alone in the world."

"Entirely alone?" asked the old man, regarding him reproachfully.

"As long as Toussoun Aga lives, his nephew, Mohammed Ali, is not entirely alone."

Mohammed held out his hand. "Thanks, uncle." He nodded to the old man, turned away, and sprang off over the rocks with such rapid bounds that old Toussoun looked after him in amazement.

"He leaps like a gazelle. Light is his step, and splendid his figure. How long will he still bless his mother's sight? how long shall my old eyes be gladdened by this young gazelle, this young eagle?"

The old man bowed his head upon his breast, and two tears trickled slowly down his cheeks.

CHAPTER IV

PREMONITION OF DEATH.

Since the day when Mohammed had first conceived a dark foreboding of his mother's insidious disease, he had become more earnest and gloomy in his disposition. The other boys avoided meeting and coming into collision with him; they paid the well-earned tribute of fruits from their parents' gardens, and assumed an almost humble demeanor in his presence. He sometimes challenged them to race or wrestle with him, but only the strongest and most active would enter into such trials with him, and he always remained the victor. They were in the habit of turning down a side street when they saw him advancing toward them, and, when they observed him among the rocks with his little gun on his shoulder, they would hide themselves behind some rocky projection and remain concealed until he had passed. But Mohammed saw them. His eye would glitter when he passed their hiding-places, and a contemptuous smile play about his lips.

"The hawks fear the eagle," he would murmur to himself, "but the eagle will some day pluck out their feathers and show them that he is master."

Striving to earn money to procure little luxuries for his mother, he would more rarely absent himself from home for longer periods than formerly. When the storm raged, and, the boldest fishermen feared to venture over to Imbro where their nets were laid, Mohammed would offer to go for them, provided they gave him double wages; and the fishermen, fearing that the wild waves might bear away their nets filled with the rare fish that only came up from the deep during the storm, would willingly accede to his demands. One day when the sea was roaring and foaming wildly, one of the fishermen stood upon the shore imploring Allah to save the nets he had taken to Imbro the day before, and which, assuredly filled with the rarest fish, bad perhaps already become a prey to the waves.

"Why not go after them?" said a mocking voice behind him. "Go over and get your nets."

The fisherman regarded the intrepid boy Mohammed, who now stood at his side, with severity. "No one would venture out in such a storm.

Moreover, this is Thursday, the evil day on which the ghins, who draw men into the deep, are abroad. I must therefore lose my rich catch and the nets besides. Your old uncle, Toussoun Aga, will be well pleased, however, for it will take all I have to purchase new nets from him."

"My uncle can make no nets at present," said Mohammed. "He has been ill for weeks; I therefore advise you to save those you have, as you will find it impossible to procure as good ones from anybody else."

"A good piece of advice!" cried the fisherman, angrily. "But what am I to do if the storm tears my nets away?"

"Try to save your nets," replied Mohammed, laughing. "What will you give me if I go over and get them and the catch of fish besides?"

"You wouldn't attempt it! Look how the waves roar and open their wide jaws as if to devour you even here on the shore! You will not venture out."

"I know the waves," replied the boy, "and I know your boat. It glides over the water like a nutshell, and the monsters of the deep love me and will safely bear me over to the island on their backs. I will go if you will give me what I ask."

"What do you, ask?"

"You shall give me half your fish. If I bring them over safely, call four of your friends; let them fairly estimate the price, and then pay me my share. Will you agree to this, Omar?"

"No, I will not! This is unheard of!" cried the fisherman, angrily.

"Just as you please," said Mohammed, quietly. "You would rather lose the whole, than save half, and the nets besides. Consider well that Toussoun Aga has perhaps made his last nets, and that yours were quite new, and the finest quality he ever made."

"Be satisfied with a fourth part of the fish, and the bargain made,"

said Omar, as he looked longingly toward the island, now, as the waves had subsided somewhat, visible as a dark spot on the horizon.

The boy regarded him angrily.

"I am no tradesman, and will not be cheapened. Half of the fish, or I remain here."

"Well, if it must be, take half, you usurer!" cried the enraged fisherman.

"Where is your boat?" asked Mohammed, quietly.

"Down there in the inlet. And now be quick about it, boy!"

"Directly! But every thing in its order. You must first acknowledge the bargain before witnesses."

"Before witnesses?" cried the enraged fisherman. "Is not Allah the witness of an honest man's promise? "

"He is. But who knows but the roaring of the storm has prevented your words from ascending to his ear?" replied Mohammed, with a mocking smile. "I will bring Mr. Lion; you can repeat your words before him."

Before Omar could prevent him, the boy bounded away to the merchant, and begged him to come and witness Omar's promise. The merchant willingly followed his favorite in spite of the storm and the spray which the waves tossed up to the spot where the men were standing.

When he learned what was in contemplation, and when Omar had repeated his promise, the merchant shook his head resolutely. "This cannot and shall not be. You shall not drive the boy out in such weather; the sea is an open grave, as it were!"

"Mr. Lion!" cried Mohammed, advancing toward him, his arms folded on his breast. "Look at me! Why do you call me a boy? Am I not taller than many of the men on our island; am I not stronger than many boys of eighteen?"

"It is true," said Mr. Lion. "Though only fourteen, you are no longer a boy. I beg your pardon, Mohammed Ali, for considering your years and not your strength. But all the same, whether youth or boy, no one goes to sea in such weather."

"I will show you that one does go to sea in such weather, when good wages are to be made!" exclaimed Mohammed, as he, before the merchant could prevent him, quickly ran down to the little inlet, loosened Omar's boat from its fastening, and sprang into it.

He was soon out among the waves. They roar and surge around him, but what cares he? He throws himself down in the boat and holds fast with both hands. The waves alternately lift him aloft, and bury him out of sight. It is splendid sport. It is long since Mohammed has felt so well as now, when tossed in his frail skiff on the foaming deep. He shouts in exultation