‘Mother,’ sobbed Dschemila, ‘do you really not know your own daughter?’
‘Yes, of course I know her.’
‘What are her two scars then?’
‘On her thigh is a scar from the bite of a dog, and on her breast is the mark of a burn, where she pulled a lamp over her when she was little.’
‘Then look at me, and see if I am not your daughter,’ said Dschemila, throwing off her clothes and showing her two scars.
And at the sight her mother embraced her, weeping.
‘Dear daughter,’ she cried, ‘what evil fate has befallen you?’
‘It was the ogre who carried me off first, and then bewitched me,’ answered Dschemila.
‘But what is to be done with you?’ asked her mother.
‘Hide me away, and tell no one anything about me. And you, dear cousin, say nothing to the neighbours, and if they should put questions, you can make answer that I have not yet been found.’