To a British
man-of-war, making patrol of the Mombasa coast, there rowed out a boat,
having a respectable old Arab gentleman in the stern-sheets. He handed
up a parcel, desiring it to be delivered to Sir George Grey at Cape
Town. Sir George had left South Africa for New Zealand, and the
manuscripts, as the contents of the bundle proved, were sent after him.
'But nobody could read them,' he stated, 'until here, as I learn, an
Assyrian gentleman has been visiting Auckland. What is my surprise, on
opening this envelope, to find everything made clear in English,
including Mahomed Naser Eben's letter to me. He addresses me as a cavern
of hospitality, which is very handsome, and a phrase with a true Oriental
flavour. Unluckily, he appears to have got lost for two years in that
part of Africa marked Oman on the map. Hence a delay with him, in sending
the manuscripts, but he need not have apologised, my single feeling being
gladness that he discovered himself again.'
It was nigh forty years since Mahomed Naser Eben wrote, and in the
interval many skies had changed. Two had been apart, a sundered heaven,
the doing of that tragedy which ever lies in wait upon romance. But they
came together, as the clouds were gathering, and upon them the sun ray of
Mahomed Naser Eben could sparkle.
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