A faint smile trembled on her lips. "If, however, son of my heart, I should be unable to utter this cry, if my voice should be too weak to reach you-"
He again regarded her with an anxious, inquiring look. "Can that be,
Sitta Khadra? Do you believe your voice can become so weak?"
"Be reassured, my son; I neither believe nor fear it, but yet it might be."
"Yes, it might be," said he, passing his trembling hand across his brow. "I shall go to Uncle Toussoun Aga and tell him how to call me. Only promise me, mother, that, if you need me, and are not able to call yourself, you will send for uncle and tell him to do so. I could otherwise have no peace; could not attend to my work and occupation, unless I knew that you would have me called to you when you need me."
"It shall be so, my son. When I need you, you shall be called, and now do not allow yourself to be disturbed in your occupations. Fly out, young eagle, out into the air, out among the rocks, and learn from heaven and earth what to do to prepare for your future."
She kissed his brow and laid her hand on his head in a blessing. Mohammed kissed this hand, and then sprang to his feet and went to his old uncle Toussoun Aga. With perfect gravity he begged permission to teach him the eagle's cry, that he might be able to call him when his mother should need him.
The old man looked up from the fishing-nets, at which he was working, in utter bewilderment. "What possesses you, Mohammed Ali? What an idea to take into your head, to train the old fellow who is good for nothing but to make nets for the fishermen, in which they catch the red mareles and the blue flyers—to train this old fellow to imitate the eagle and scream like the king of the air!"
"And yet you must learn to cry like this same eagle, uncle!" With resistless force he drew his uncle from his mat, and almost compelled him to go up with him to the verge of the rock. High above where the cliff projects far out into the sea, there, with a serious air, Mohammed taught his uncle the eagle's cry.
At first his uncle refused to imitate him and utter the cry as directed, but Mohammed regarded him with so wild and angry a look, and then entreated him in such soft and tender tones to do it for his dear mother's sake, whose call would, perhaps, be too weak to reach him, that the old man could at last no longer refuse.
When he had imitated him in a loud, shrill voice, Mohammed smiled and nodded approvingly.