over his soul which caused him to run away as fast as his legs would carry him.
"The greatest rarity in the world," admitted the Prince of Mongols. "There is no doubt of it. More precious than the Prince of Persia's flying carpet, more marvelous than the Indian's crystal! And yet . . ." he slurred; paused.
"And yet—what?" asked the medicine-man.
"Will Zobeid think so?"
"How can she help herself, Majesty?"
There is beauty and romance in a rug that can cut through the air like a swallow; beauty and romance, too, in a crystal globe that mirrors the motley scenes of life. But is there beauty in this—a thing which gives life—yes—but which also gives death? Zobeid is a woman, soft-hearted. The thought of this grim thing might make her shudder. Perhaps she will fear and hate it—and fear and hate the giver."
"Decidedly," came Yuqluq's insolent answer. "It is lucky for you that I am going to be a member of your family. My brain will be of great help to you through the years to come. Majesty"—he lowered his voice—"use this magic apple!"
