The brightest hung round the throne on which the queen sat, and which stood above four steps of pure gold inlaid with great amethysts. The four greatest nobles in the kingdom held a canopy of crimson silk over the queen, and the Sheik of Medina fanned her with a peacock-feather fan.
In this state she awaited her husband and her son. She, too, had not seen Omar since his birth, but so many dreams had shown her what he would look like that she felt she would know him among a thousand.
And now the sound of trumpets and drums and of shouts and cheers outside announced the long looked for moment. The doors flew open, and between rows of low-bending courtiers and servants the king approached the throne, leading his pretended son by the hand.
“Here,” said he, “is he for whom you have been longing so many years.”
But the queen interrupted him, “That is not my son!” she cried. “That is not the face the Prophet has shown me in my dreams!”
Just as the king was about to reason with her, the door was thrown violently open, and Prince Omar rushed in, followed by his keepers, whom he had managed to get away from. He flung himself down before the throne, panting out, “Here will I die; kill me at once, cruel father, for I cannot bear this shame any longer.”
Everyone pressed round the unhappy man, and the guards were about to seize him, when the queen, who at first was dumb with surprise, sprang up from her throne.
“Hold!” cried she. “This and no other is the right one; this is the one whom my eyes have never yet seen, but whom my heart recognises.”
The guards had stepped back, but the king called to them in a furious voice to secure the madman.
“It is I who must judge,” he said in tones of command; “and this matter cannot be decided by women’s dreams, but by certain unmistakable signs. This one” (pointing to Labakan) “is my son, for it was he who brought me the token from my friend Elfi—the dagger.”