treasure wherewith to win the Princess' hand. Why—he thought—he was in no hurry to return to Bagdad; would he able to stop for a couple of months at Kerman. For this was the season when the purple plums and purple melons of Kerman were ripe! Ah!—he smacked his fat lips—a lamb, stuffed with nuts and raisins and roasted whole; a heaped platter of plums; a bottle of golden Khaketian wine; and a melon—perhaps two melons—as dessert! Life was worth the living indeed!
He fell asleep, while the little slave girl, curled at his feet, crooned a lilting, lisping Afghan love song, and while the Mongol Prince's spy, who had watched and listened, rode swiftly toward the North to make report to his master.
On he rode; over the ragged, bitter crests of the mountains, across sudden valleys, flanking the dwarf dikes of the poppy fields, on through the huge, grey flat of the upland desert that was seamed with wide sheets of tufaceous gypsum shining like mirrors; on, ever hurrying, grudging the hours of rest spent in camp and
