132 THE THIEF OF BAGDAD
that is flashed by lightnings and with delicate yellow as the seedling of a pea.
"Rugs? Bah!" objected the Prince. "All the world has rugs."
Again Hakim Ali laughed. He pointed to the corner where, carelessly, negligently thrown, was a threadbare, worn, drab-colored square of carpet with a fair fringe all round.
"Look at it!" he said.
"What about it?"
"Buy it. Ten silver pieces will be enough."
"Why should I buy it?"
"Because"—Hakim Ali lowered his voice—"there is nothing rarer in the Seven Worlds of Allah's Creation."
And then, when the transaction had been finished through the Prince's majordomo who, incidentally, bargained the rug dealer down to six pieces of silver and deducted twenty-five per cent from this sum as his personal commission, Hakim Ali whispered into the Prince's ear the secret of the rug:
"Not one of these foolish Badakshani merchants knows its value nor its hidden mystery. You see"—talking in a flat, sibilant purr—"it
