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Updated: July 5, 2025
Toussoun gazed smilingly at the two, and then noiselessly left the hut. "It is best to leave them alone, that Allah only may hear what the mother says to her son," he murmured, as he returned to his own hut, where he industriously began to apply himself to making fishing- nets, with which occupation he earned his livelihood.
May the same success he has met with against the storms of the sea to- day also attend him hereafter against the storms of life!" Toussoun Aga stretches out his hand to take that of his nephew Mohammed, to lead him to the rock above, to his mother, but the boy quickly rejects the proffered assistance. "I can ascend the rock to my mother alone; I am not weak and terrified, uncle.
Go on, I will follow." And, as he says this, he crosses his hands behind his back. The rest now cry out: "Look at his hands! Look, they are bleeding!" Toussoun now takes the boy's hands in his own, against his will, and opens them. They are covered with blood, that oozes out of the raw flesh. "It is nothing," said the boy; "nothing at all.
Your old uncle, Toussoun Aga, will be well pleased, however, for it will take all I have to purchase new nets from him." "My uncle can make no nets at present," said Mohammed. "He has been ill for weeks; I therefore advise you to save those you have, as you will find it impossible to procure as good ones from anybody else." "A good piece of advice!" cried the fisherman, angrily.
But both your mother and your Uncle Toussoun are spoiling you in their anxiety to strew your pathway with rose-leaves, and guard you from every hardship." "They would," said the boy, shrugging his shoulders, "if I allowed them, but I will not! I will bare my face to the storm, and walk on thorns instead of rose-leaves, in order that my feet may become hardened.
He springs with horror to his feet, and bounds from rock to rock, down the steep-he has just heard the cry for the third time. "Await me, mother! O my mother, I am coming!" Like an arrow he speeds through the suburb to his mother's hut. Pale and terrified, Toussoun meets him at the door. He had risen from his bed of sickness in response to Khadra's call.
Toussoun Aga's countenance assumed a very grave expression, and he looked down confused. "Answer me!" cried Mohammed, vehemently. "Is my mother ill? In the name of the prophet, I command you to tell me the truth!" "Do not demand it, son of my beloved brother, Ibrahim Aga," said the old man, sorrowfully. "It does not become man to pry into the mysteries of Allah.
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