attempt to do so; and persons of other religions were afraid to destroy it for fear of the anger of the Musselmans. Thus the Pasha borrowed great sums of money and no one suspected him of dealing illegally.
"Meanwhile," went on Menehem Sorcha, "I continued to live, lonely, on the island. But one day I set out on a trip to Sultanabad, in West Central Persia, in search of several rare Shiraz rugs of which I had heard great tales. Sultanabad is distinctly Oriental, a fit specimen of the smaller native towns scattered promiscuously throughout the Province of the Sun. Huts of reeds, rushes and brushwood intermingled with Bedouin tents lie at the extreme outskirts of the town, on the border of the wild desert land. In the distance, low hills, bleak and yellow, stand out sharply on the horizon. With these as a background, the winding alleys of the native quarters, the mazes of the bazaars, and the crowded passages between the booths present a scene exceptionally picturesque. When I arrived at Sultanabad, I forgot my mission, for as I reached the market place, I was attracted by an exceedingly ugly crier, loudly proclaiming his wares. He was an auctioneer of women, low-born Syrian slaves for the most part. They stood in a row on a slightly elevated wooden platform, dirty, ragged and coarse looking, while he drew attention to their good points in a distinctly offensive manner. Nor was this all, for as I gazed upon these God-forsaken women, I noticed one who was far different from her companions, a maiden who seemed as diamond to pumice stone in comparison. She could not have been more
