is no gift like the gift of song,’ he said. ‘I will do better by you than will he, the King to whom you are going. Stay with me, and for every verse you write I will give you a camel. Behold the herd!’
“And at departing, they had each a hundred camels, and he three hundred verses.
“‘Where is the herd?’ the grandfather asked, when next he came to the pasture.
“‘See thou. Here are songs in honor of our house,’ Hátim answered, proudly—‘songs by great poets; and they will be repeated until all Arabia is filled with our glory.’
“‘Alas! Thou hast ruined me!’ the elder cried, beating his breast.
“‘What!’ said Hátim, indignantly. ‘Carest thou more for the dirty brutes than for the crown of honor I bought with them?’”
Here the Arab paused. The recitation, it is to be remarked, had been without action, or facial assistance—a wholly unornate delivery; and now he kept stately silence. His eyes, intensely bright in the shadow of the kufiyeh, may have produced the spell which held the Princess throughout; or it may have been the eyes and voice; or, quite as likely, the character of Hátim touched a responsive chord in her breast.
“I thank you,” she said, adding presently: “In saying I regret the story ended so soon, I pray you receive my opinion of its telling. I doubt if Hátim himself could have rendered it better.”
The Arab recognized the compliment with the faintest of bows, but made no reply in words. Irené then raised her veil, and spoke again.
“Thy Hátim, O eloquent Arab, was warrior and poet, and, as thou hast shown him to me, he was also a philosopher. In what age did he live?”
“He was a shining light in the darkness preceding the appearance of the Prophet. That period is dateless with us.”
“It is of little consequence,” she continued. “Had he lived in our day, he would have been more than poet, warrior and philosopher—he would be a Christian. His charity and love of others, his denial of self, sound like the Christ. Doubtless he could have died for his fellow-men. Hast thou not more of him? Surely he lived long and happily.”
“Yes,” said the Arab, with a flash of the eyes to denote his appreciation of the circumstance. “He is reported to have been the most wretched of men. His wife—I pray you will observe I am speaking by the tradition—his wife had the power, so dreadful to husbands, of raising Iblis at pleasure. It delighted her to beat him and chase him from his tent; at last she abandoned him.”
“Ah!” the Princess exclaimed. “His charities were not admirable in her eyes.”
“The better explanation, Princess, maybe found in a saying we have in the desert—’ A tall man may wed a small woman, but a great soul shall not enter into bonds with a common one.’”
There was silence then, and as the gaze of the story-teller was again finding a fascination in her face, Irené took refuge behind her veil, but said, presently:
“With permission, I will take the story of Hátim for mine; but here is my friend—what hast thou for her?”
The story-teller turned to Lael.
“Her pleasure shall be mine,” he said.
“I should like something Indian,” the girl answered, timidly, for the eyes oppressed her also.
“Alas! India has no tales of love. Her poetry is about gods and abstract religions. Wherefore, if I may choose, I will a tale from Persia next. In that country there was a verse-maker called Firdousi, and he wrote a great poem, The Sháh Námeh, with a warrior for hero. This is how Rustem, in single combat, killed Sohrab, not knowing the youth was his son until after the awful deed was done.”
The tale was full of melancholy interest, and told with singular grace; but it continued until after nightfall; of which the party was admonished by the attendants coming to light the lamps. At the conclusion, the Arab courteously apologized for the time he had wrested from them.
“In dealing with us, O Princess,” he said, “patience is full as lovely as charity.”
Lifting the veil again, she extended her hand to him, saying, “The obligation is with us. I thank you for making light and pleasant an afternoon which else had been tedious.”
He kissed her hand, and followed the eunuch to the door. Then the supper was announced.
Chapter XI.
The Turquoise Ring
The Prince of India, left in the passage of the Castle with Sergius, was not displeased with the course the adventure appeared to be taking. In the first place, he felt no alarm for Lael; she might be uncomfortable in the quarter to which she had been, conducted, but that was all, and it would not last long. The guardianship of the eunuch was in his view a guaranty of her personal safety. In the next place, acquaintance with the Princess might prove serviceable in the future. He believed Lael fitted for the highest rank; she was already educated beyond the requirements of the age for women; her beauty was indisputable; as a consequence, he had thought of her a light in the court; and not unpleasantly it occurred to him now that the fair Princess might carry keys for both the inner and outer doors of the royal residence.
Generally the affair which was of concern to Lael was an affair of absorbing interest to the Prince; in this instance, however, another theme offered itself for the moment a superior attraction.
The impression left by the young master of ceremonies in the reception at the landing was of a kind to arouse curiosity. His appearance, manner, speech and the homage paid him denoted exalted rank; while the confidence with which he spoke for Sultan Amurath was most remarkable. His acceptance of the terms presented by the Princess Irené was little short of downright treaty-making; and what common official dared carry assumption to such a height? Finally the Prince fell to thinking if there was any person the actual governor of the Castle would quietly permit to go masquerading in his authority and title.
Then everything pointed him to Prince Mahommed. The correspondence in age was perfect; the martial array seen galloping down the bank was a fitting escort for the heir-apparent of the gray Sultan; and he alone might with propriety speak for his father in a matter of state.
“A mistake cannot be serious,” said the Prince to himself, at the end of the review. “I will proceed upon the theory that the young man is Prince Mahommed.”
This was no sooner determined than the restless mind flew forward to an audience. The time and place—midnight in the lonesome old Castle—were propitious, and he was prepared for it.
Indeed it was the very purpose he had in view the night of the repastin his tent at El Zaribah where he so mysteriously intrusted the Emir Mirza with revelations concerning the doom of Constantinople.
Once more he ran over the scheme which had brought him from Cipango. If Islam could not be brought to lead in the project, Christendom might be more amenable to reason. The Moslem world was to be reached through the Kaliph whom he expected to find in Egypt; wherefore his contemplated trip down the Nile from Kash-Cush. If driven to the
