“And perhaps they were right. From all I hear about Hajji Akhbar Khan …”
And then, with utter, dramatic suddenness, the name of the Hajji was echoed by a shrill voice that drifted through the curtains which separated the audience hall from the women's quarter.
“Hajji Akhbar Khan—didst thou say?” It was the old nurse's screaming voice. “And dost thou mean to tell me that the princess—that little, little fool of a princess—went there, without telling me? Why didst thou not tell me, O daughter of a noseless she-camel?”
The next moment she burst into the audience hall, like a miniature whirlwind of passion, her wizened, berry-brown features distorted with rage and grief, dragging after her a weeping slave girl whom she cuffed and kicked as a sort of accompaniment to the tale which she poured into Hector's ear.
“Zid! Zid!—Hurry! Hurry!” she wound up, and Hector, pale, slightly trembling, turned to the American.
“Pardon my abruptness,” he said, “I have to go …”
“Has anything happened? Can I help you?”
“I don't know. No time to explain. Awfully sorry.”
And he picked up the ancient Oriental blade from a low taboret and ran out of the audience hall and into the outer court.
A splendid stallion was there, champing at his bit, saddled, gayly caparisoned, belonging to some courtier who had come for audience.
Hector threw his leg across the saddle, and was off
