The unfortunate prince had his hands firmly bound and was placed upon a camel whilst a guard rode on either side of him to watch his every movement.
The aged prince was named Saaud, and he was Sultan of the Wechabites.
For a long time he had been childless and then one son had been born to him. But the astrologers whom he had consulted as to the boy’s future told him that until he had passed the age of twenty-two he would be in constant danger of being supplanted by an enemy, and therefore he had entrusted the care of his child to his old and valued friend Elfi Bey, and had passed two-and-twenty anxious years awaiting his son’s coming.
The Sultan told his supposed son this story and added how pleased and more than contented he was with his appearance and bearing.
On reaching the Sultan’s own country they were greeted with shouts of joy by the whole populace, for the news of the prince’s coming had spread like wildfire through all the villages and towns. Arches of flowers and greenery spanned the roads, and tapestries of gorgeous colours decked the houses, and all the people shouted praise to the Prophet for sending them such a handsome prince. No wonder the tailor’s heart swelled with pride and joy, whilst Prince Omar felt more unhappy than ever at his sad state. The air resounded with cries of “Omar,” but he who had the right to the name rode unnoticed through the throng, except when now and then some one asked who it was that was bound and guarded so securely. Then the answers his guards made caused his heart to sink: “He is but a mad tailor,” they said.
The procession at length reached the Sultan’s capital, where everything had been prepared for their reception with even greater splendour than in the other towns. The Sultana, an elderly and dignified lady, awaited them with her entire court in the most magnificent room in the palace. The floor of the apartment was covered with an enormous carpet and the walls were hung with pale blue cloth, draped with golden cords and tassels which hung from silver hooks.
As it was already dark when the procession reached the palace, the room was lighted with innumerable many-coloured lamps, the light from which turned night into day. Beneath the brightest light the Sultana sat upon her throne, which was raised upon four steps and was of pure gold set with amethysts. The four most distinguished emirs held a canopy of red silk over her head, and the Sheik of Medina fanned her with a fan of peacock’s feathers.
Thus the Sultana awaited the coming of the son she had not seen since his birth, although in her dreams he had been frequently present with her, so that she felt certain she would know him again in the midst of thousands.
Presently the noise of the approaching procession was heard, and before long the curtains were drawn aside and the Sultan approached his wife, leading his supposed son by the hand.
“Here I bring you the son you have yearned for so long,” he cried. But the Sultana would not allow him to proceed—“That is not my son,” said she. “Those are not the features the Prophet allowed me to gaze on in my dreams.”