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“Let it be as he says, O my lord!” pleaded the negro eagerly; for he tired of standing still, a gazing-stock for low people.

“So be it then,” said Shems-ud-dìn, with a cordial smile. “By my beard, I thank thee; for in this minute I knew not where to face.”

So it happened that Shems-ud-dìn entered the city of his birth one morning, riding soberly upon an ass, in the company of three fat old men, riding each likewise upon an ass. The legs of all four stuck out wide over full saddlebags. On foot beside Shems-ud-dìn went his faithful negro, now walking, now trotting, in accordance with the donkey’s pace. From Zebbadâni, where they had spent the night, they ambled by garden ways to the great city, down a valley full of shade, and the song of birds, and the ever-sweet murmur of running waters.

Shems-ud-dìn had found the journey anything but tiresome. And now, in the familiar streets where every sight and sound recalled his childhood, he felt like nothing more than a happy child.

Near by the khan of Ahmed Effendi, in a covered way narrow and crowded, where the cavalcade had to go in single file with shouts to clear the path, a hand grasped Shems-ud-dìn’s arm, and the voice of Milhem snarled: