“The young man would be about one-and-twenty, you say?” he enquired.
“Yes, my Lord, my own age,” answered the slave.
“And what do you say is the name of his native town?”
“If I was not mistaken it was Alexandria,” was the reply.
“Alexandria!” cried the Sheik. “Then it was my son. Did he ever call himself Kairam? Had he dark eyes and brown hair?”
“Yes, my lord,” said the slave, “and sometimes he called himself Kairam and not Almansor.”
“But tell me,” said the old man, “are you sure his own father bought him, did he assure you it was so? Because if this is the case he cannot be my son.”
The slave answered: “I heard him thank Allah for having brought him back to his own city, and when an aged and distinguished-looking man approached him and bought him he whispered to me: ‘My misfortunes are at an end, for it is my own father who has bought me.’”
“Alas! it was not my son,” cried the Sheik in tones of deep grief.
Then the young man could contain himself no longer. Tears of joy rushed to his eyes and he threw himself at the Sheik’s feet and cried: “But it was your son, Kairam, or Almansor, for it was you who purchased him.”