The story of the False Prince

“Here,” said he, “do I bring to thee, him for whom thou hast so often longed.”

The sultana, however, interrupted him, crying: “This is not my son! These are not the features which the Prophet has shown me in my dreams!”

Just as the sultan was about to rebuke her superstition, the door of the saloon sprang open, and Prince Omar rushed in, followed by his guards, whom an exertion of his whole strength had enabled him to escape. Breathless, he threw himself before the throne, exclaiming:—

“Here will I die! Kill me, cruel father, for this disgrace I can endure no longer!”

All were confounded at these words; they pressed around the unfortunate one, and already were the guards, who had hurried up, on the point of seizing him and replacing his fetters, when the sultana, who had thus far looked on in mute astonishment, sprang from the throne.

“Hold!” she cried; “this, and no other, is my son! This is he, who, though my eyes have never seen him, is well known to my heart!” The guards had involuntarily fallen back from Omar, but the sultan, foaming with rage, commanded them to bind the madman.

“It is mine to decide,” he cried with commanding tone; “and here we will judge, not by a woman’s dreams, but by sure and infallible signs. This,” pointing to Labakan, “is my son, for he has brought me the dagger, the real token of my friend Elfi.”

“He stole it,” cried Omar; “my unsuspicious confidence has he treacherously abused!” But the sultan hearkened not to the voice of his son, for he was wont in all things obstinately to follow his own judgment. He bade them forcibly drag the unfortunate Omar from the saloon, and himself retired with Labakan to his chamber, filled with anger at his wife, with whom, nevertheless, he had lived in happiness for five-and-twenty years. The sultana was full of grief at this affair; she was perfectly convinced that an impostor had taken possession of the sultan’s heart, so numerous and distinct had been the dreams which pointed out the unhappy Omar as her son.