heels, and appropriately armed with cheray daggers and pistols.
Then, having hobbled their dromedaries, they sat down by the side of the road, filled their mouths with finely cut pan, chewed and spat contentedly, and smiled at one another as Greek is said to smile at Greek.
“They”—said Musa Al-Mutasim, pointing in the general direction of Tamerlanistan and giving the Arab equivalent for swallowing the bait, hook, line, and sinker—“will climb the thorn tree and wish they had not forgotten their loin-cloths.”
“Yes. For who would recognize the great brigand chief, Musa Al-Mutasim, in a lousy Afghan charpadar?” inquired Abderrahman Yahiah Khan.
“And who,” countered “The Basin,” “would recognize in even such a one the haughty and renowned governor of the western marches?”
“Not Al Nakia, I hope!”
“Nor that Armenian son of a pig!”
“Nor Ayesha Zemzem!”
“Nor Wahab al-Shaitan!”
“Nor,” said the governor with a wink and a leer, “the little, little princess until …”
“Yes,” smiled the Arab as the other paused, “until thy strong arms crush her against thy breast!”
And they talked for a long time, with frequent allusions to Hajji Akhbar Khan, Itizad el-Dowleh, the old prime minister who had gone to the far places shortly before the Ameer's death, and to a certain ancient Tartar castle which, judging from the Arab's gestures, was situated somewhere, vaguely, in the southwest and was named Jabul-i-Shuhada, “The
