of Aziza Nurmahal it was the old nurse who ruled, socially, for all her menial position.
Thus the little princess was unprepared to cope with the unexpected—such as the strange summons.
A summons—by the lips of a rough, fur-capped Afghan charpadar who had bullied his way past the sentinels, through outer and inner courtyard, up the stairs, and into the ante-room of the harem where he had startled a pert-eyed, golden-skinned slave girl into attention by methods peculiar; methods that combined bribery, flattery, brutality, and open, rather riotous love-making.
Tell the princess that I am here!” he had said, with a lordly air.
“Thou?” The girl had made a mocking salaam. “And who then art thou? Art thou the Ameer of Bokhara? The Amban of Kashgar? The Rajah of Karpathala? Or perhaps His Majesty the yellow Emperor of far China himself?”
He had flipped a coin into her ready hand.
“One thing I would like to be,” he had replied, staring at her out of his bold eyes until she had blushed, “and one thing I am!”
“Yes?”
“Indeed, O Small Bud to be worn in the Turban of my Heart! For I would like to be thy lover! I would like to crush thy lips with mine. I would like to hold thy soft, trembling body with the impatient strength of my arms. But—by the scarlet pig's bristles!—it is only the vain wind of desire tickling my nostrils and shortening my breath. For thou art
