“Sad! and why so, my uncle?”
“For all these moons have we journeyed, but mine eyes have not seen the glory of his coming.”
“Uncle, you did not expect to see the Great One at Cairo?”
“And why not?”
“Methinks the eyes of the houris as they peer through the lattices would spoil even the prophet’s mission,” answered Ibrahim, smiling, as he uttered the words.
“Those eyes were nearly thy ruin. But hath not the holy prophet spoken of the Prophet of prophets, who should come and restore the ancient glory of Egypt, and after visiting Mecca, plant the banner of the crescent and Mahomet in every land?”
“But why do you think he has come now?” asked Ibrahim.
“In a vision of the night I heard the voice of Mahomet say out to me: ‘Arise, Sherif el Habib; cross thou the sea and go as I direct thee, and thine eyes shall see the glory of the last imaum’—leader—‘the rise of the Mahdi of whom I spake.’”
“So, uncle, we made a pilgrimage to Mecca, crossed the Red Sea, wandered about these deserts for months, deserted the towns and left the pretty girls—I beg pardon—all because of a dream.”
“You young men,” said Sherif el Habib, “are material. Is there nothing better than making shawls?”