A Sufi of forbidding appearance arrived at the doors of the palace. No one dared to stop him as he made his way right up to the throne on which the saintly Ibrahim ben Adam sat.
"What is it you want?" asked the King.
"A place to sleep in this inn."
"This is no inn. This is my palace."
"May I ask who owned this place before you?"
"My father. He is dead."
"And who owned it before him?"
"My grandfather. He is dead too."
"And this place where people lodge for a brief while and move on—did I hear you say it was not an inn?"
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