the pillar, he could not help having some remorseful thoughts of the trick he had played and the blighted hopes of the real prince. But the die was cast, and his vanity whispered that he was as fine looking a young man as the proudest king might wish his son to be, and that, moreover, what had happened had happened.
With these thoughts he summoned up all his courage sprang on his horse, and in less than a quarter of an hour was at the foot of the hill. Here he dismounted, tied the horse to a bush, and, drawing out Prince Omar’s dagger climbed up the hill.
At the foot of the pillar stood six men round a tall and stately person. His superb robe of cloth of gold was girt round him by a white cashmere shawl, and his white, richly jewelled turban showed that he was a man of wealth and high rank.
Labakan went straight up to him, and, bending low, handed him the dagger, saying: ‘Here am I whom you seek.’
‘Praised be the Prophet who has preserved you! replied the old man with tears of joy. ‘Embrace me, my dear son Omar!’
The proud tailor was deeply moved by these solemn words, and with mingled shame and joy sank into the old king’s arms.
But his happiness was not long unclouded. As he raised his head he saw a horseman who seemed trying to urge a tired or unwilling horse across the plain.
Only too soon Labakan recognised his own old horse, Murva, and the real Prince Omar, but having once told a lie he made up his mind not to own his deceit.
At last the horseman reached the foot of the hill. Here he flung himself from the saddle and hurried up to the pillar.
‘Stop!’ he cried, ‘whoever you may be, and do not let a disgraceful impostor take you in. My name is Omar, and let no one attempt to rob me of it.’
