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“In sh’ Allah!” echoed Shems-ud-dìn vaguely.

“But a province costs much money!” sighed Milhem, at the same time darting a sharp glance at his brother’s face.

The stupid had not heard. There he sat, fingering his great black beard, and gazing with his great brown eyes, full and wistful as a gazelle’s, over the cypress tops of an adjacent cemetery, over the blue strait, to the crowding minarets of the city.

“Am I here to watch thee dreaming?” said Milhem tartly. “Art in love, or what ails thee?”

Shems-ud-dìn turned to him with a smile.

“Love, saidst thou? I have not loved these many days, since the death of one I loved truly. She whom I have now is but for appearance, lest neighbors should deem me disreputable, living alone.... I do but think, O my brother! I think, by Allah’s leave, I go with thee.”

Milhem flung up his hands and eyes to heaven.

“What a fancy!” he cried, affrighted. “May Allah heal thee of it quickly.”

“Mock me not, O beloved!” pleaded Shems-ud-dìn. “Whom love I in the world like thee? While thou wast absent fighting in the holy wars, had my soul peace? And since then, seeing thee so seldom, have I been content? I adjure thee, by our love of old, gainsay me not in this matter!”