saheb's slave, and that the saheb was the light of his countenance and the stone of his everlasting contentment.
Mr. Warburton was familiar with certain phases of the Orient.
“Let's take all that for granted,” he replied, brutally. “How much are you going to overcharge me?”
Nureddin Zaid, the Baluchi, looked at the American reproachfully.
“Saheb,” he said, “this is not a question of money. It is a question of my affection and loyalty to you.”
“Yes?” Mr. Warburton looked up, surprised, a little suspicious.
“Yes. You have been kind and generous. So has the little mem-saheb”—pointing at Jane who, well out of hearing, was amusedly watching Abderrahman Yahiah Khan's flirtatious conversation with the village girl. “And thus I would like to repay you, saheb!”
And he talked long and earnestly to Mr. Warburton, with the result that the latter, a few minutes afterwards, told his daughter that she would stay here, at the village outside the city walls, under the protection of half-a-dozen soldiers, until he sent for her.
“I want to go with you, dad.”
“No, Jane. It isn't safe. Nureddin Zaid told me that the prime minister of Tamerlanistan, the chap they call Al Nakia is … oh …” he coughed.
“A Don Juan?” she laughed. “Why, dad, I can take care of myself. I've played around New York and Paris and London, you know.”
“But this is the Orient, my dear, and things are
