Again Shula paused.
Max was impatient, and could not wait.
“I would give my right hand to find the descendants of Emin,” he said.
“Would you?”
“Indeed I would.”
“Then listen. Emin was wounded. He had entered the mosque without removing his shoes. He pleaded to his own conscience that his wound would excuse his sacrilege. He fell asleep, and as he slept he dreamed—that is, some say so; he declared that he was awake all the time. But he fancied he saw a great ring of light, and in the center, Mahomet, the great prophet. ‘Rise,’ said the prophet, ‘thy wound is healed.’ Emin began to excuse the wearing of shoes in the mosque, but the prophet stopped him. ‘Thy shoes were removed by me,’ he said, and sure enough, Emin was shoeless. ‘Go to the ruins of Thebes and hide thee until I bid thee go to the desert, and there thou shalt stay, thou and thy sons, but thy son’s son shall be the Imaum of his people.’ ‘But,’ said Emin, ‘the Imaum shall be of thy race, illustrious prophet;’ and then the prophet answered: ‘Thou art of my race, thou art blessed, indeed.”
Shula called for his servant and ordered him to bring some grapes.
Holding a cup, the servant squeezed the grapes until the cup was full of the ruby-colored juice.
Another cup was filled for Max, and when the servant had withdrawn, Shula continued:
“The Mahdi, according to tradition, should be the grandson of Emin——”