“Hush-sh,” said Simba, warningly, as he bent his ears to the lips which now were whispering words which brought the tears to Simba’s eyes.
“And sons shall mourn for Arab fathers slain,
And Arab wives shall shed their tears like rain.”
“Poor boy!” said Simba; “he repeats the words his mother said before son and mother parted.” And then in a louder tone he said, “Selim, young master, dost thou know me?”
The head turned round, and the eyes of his young master rested on him full, with the light of intelligence in them.
“Ah, Simba! Is it thou?” asked Selim, in a faint but glad voice.
“Yes, I—thy slave Simba. Praised be Allah for his goodness! my master knows his slave.”
“Where am I?” Selim then asked. “I have had such a fearful dream. I thought I was dying from thirst and hunger. But this is not that awful forest I saw. I am in a house, and Simba is at my side. How is this, Simba?”
“Dost thou not know Moto, master?” asked Moto, who had risen to his feet.
“And thou too, Moto, here? Then I am happy. I am not alone, as I dreamed I was.”
“No, master, thou art not alone; but take some more of this,” said Simba, as he industriously stirred the porridge. “It is good for thee, and thou wilt be quite strong by-and-bye.”