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CHAPTER VI. MURAD’S THREE WHIMS.
MARSILLUS one day observed that his son’s manner was more caressing than usual, so he took him on his knee and said—
“What does my child want to-day? Generally he does not embrace me at all, but since the morning he has done so three times!”
“Sire,” said Murad, leaning his little head on his father’s shoulder, “I should like to have your yataghan that hangs at your side!”
“What! Have you broken all your toys, or are you tired of play that you ask me for such a formidable weapon?”
“I am seven years old,” said Murad, drawing himself up; “I am no longer a child, and can carry arms. The sight of blood has no terror for me—nay! look”—and rapidly snatching the yataghan before the king had time to stop him, he gave himself a gash in the arm. Then, without flinching, he looked at his father, and said, “You see you can trust me with it!” The king staunched the blood and bound up the gash with his scarf. Then, embracing his son, he gave him the coveted weapon.