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Updated: May 21, 2025
Baron Pollnitz stared after him with widely-distended eyes; he felt as if a thunderbolt had destroyed his future. This was not the extravagant, voluptuous, and confiding monarch that Pollnitz had thought him, but a sober, earnest, and frugal king, that even mistrusted and saw through him, the wily old courtier. Two days and nights had passed, and still no news from the prince royal.
Holding up the devoted calico to the gaze of the assembly, with a single effort of his strong and widely-distended arms, he rent it asunder with little difficulty, the sweep not terminating, until the stuff, which, by-the-way, resigned itself without struggle or resistance to its fate, had been most completely and evenly divided.
Consoling themselves with this thought, the women crouch down at the door. Mohammed kneels beside the mat on which his mother lies, takes her hands now almost cold-in his own, bends over her and looks into the widely-distended eyes that stare vacantly up at him, and sobs in loud, heart-rending tones "Mother, Mother, Do you hear me? Here I am, your son, Mohammed. You cannot die, for I am with you!"
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