"I cannot speak of it now, and I am a poor, unhappy being whose feet are too weak to bear him. I pray you go down to Praousta yourself. Oh, go to the cliffs, father, go to the caves and openings in the rock! Take the servants with you! I conjure you, father, do not delay a moment!"
He could speak no further, and the tschorbadji saw, with dismay, that his son's face was deathly pale.
"Be courageous, my Osman! It shall be as you say. I will call the servants. See, I am already going!"
He hastily left the palace with his servants. All is still quiet in Praousta—the walk among the cliffs, and down to the shore. Then suddenly—
"What is that on the beach? O Allah, the merciful! Is that not a dead body? Is it not Mohammed? Bound and gagged! He does not move! Quick, cut the ropes, take the gag out of his mouth!"
This is speedily done, but still Mohammed does not move.
"Is he dead? There are no wounds to be seen on his person! No, not dead, he is only insensible. Bring water, wet his temples, cool his forehead!"
Allah be praised! He moves, he lives! Yes, he lives, and he bounds suddenly to his feet, and he gazes around with the expression not of a man, but of a tiger. He then utters a cry so fearful, so terrible a cry, that the tschorbadji's heart is filled with anxiety and compassion.
With outstretched arms, Mohammed walks down to the verge of the sea.
The servants rush after him, and endeavor to hold him back. He clinches his fists and strikes them, but they grasp him firmly, and at last succeed in overcoming him.