“There may be; I like to travel. I would like to go to Alexandria, to Constantinople, to Paris, London. Oh, uncle, you are rich; give up these dreams, and let us enjoy life.”
“Ibrahim, how old are you?”
“Eighteen, uncle.”
“And I am sixty-eight. Wait but a few more years and all my wealth will be thine; then thou canst journey whither thou pleasest. But I have a mission. When I go down to the grave of my fathers, my soul will have seen the light of great Mahdi’s face.”
It is believed by devout followers of Mahomet that before the end of the world there shall arise a mahdi—literally, a director who shall be of the family of Mahomet, whose name should be Mahomet Achmet, and who should fill the world with righteousness. For six hundred years the Mohammedans have been expecting their messiah to appear.
“As thou wilt, uncle, but——”
Ibrahim’s speech was cut short abruptly by the hurried salaam of Effendi, the Sherif el Habib’s confidential eunuch and secretary.
“What is it, Effendi?”
“Your excellency! I know not, but a young and beautiful girl hath fainted, and with her——”
“Who is she?” asked Ibrahim. “Lead me to her!”