Who knows how many of these stalwart and stout-hearted people will
return to those from whom they are now almost tearfully withdrawing?
Will the brave and noble Amer son of Osman, who is now bending over his
beautiful wife, in earnest conversation, ever come back? He appears so
strong and robust in health; two hundred well-appointed servants of his
household are round about him; his Arab companions, with their powerful
retinue, who have gone before him to Simbamwenni, we may be sure, will
be faithful to him. Yet who can insure his return? And thus doubt,
fear, and anxiety alternate in his wife Amina's eyes, as she raises them
appealingly, regretfully, towards his own.

"Yes, Amina, please God, I shall come back within two years, with so
much ivory, and so many slaves, as will make me the richest man in
Zanzibar. Inshallah! Inshallah!" said Amer, in a sanguine tone.

"Amina, say thy farewell to Selim, the pride of the Beni-Hassan. He
will some day return to Oman, a rich and powerful chief. Dost thou not
think he looks a warrior in his marching dress? But hasten, or we shall
have nothing but women's tears, which perhaps will drown us before we
begin our journey."

As Amer turned away after a still but fervent embrace, Amina turned to
Selim, with a look which revealed the love her maternal heart bore him,
and so steadfastly did she regard him, that it seemed she was fixing a
life-long picture of his features in her memory which time would in vain
attempt to efface.

"Thou, Selim," she said, drawing him nearer to her, "thou joy of my
heart, and jewel of my eyes! Thou art really about to depart! Thou to
leave thy mother's heart desolate! What joy is left for me--my son and
lord both going? Wilt thou not let thy mother's voice plead, and
prevail with thee, Selim? Look, Selim, on that dancing sea! Beyond the
narrow strait lies the Zanjian isle! Over its fair shores the gentle
winds waft the perfumes of citron and orange! The sweet scents of the
jasmine flowers, the cinnamon and clove vie with the fragrance of the
orange! Bare odours and sweet strains of bulbul lull the senses into
perfect felicity! The sweet air is pregnant with fragrance! Where
canst thou meet with a land so fair, my Selim? Wilt thou leave thy
mother, these delights, these joys, for the cruel heat, and thirst, and
jungle-thorn of negro-land? Oh, Selim! Oh, Selim! Wilt thou leave thy
mother, the orange-groves, the palms, the cool fo