a perfumed jewel, palace born, palace bred, palace spoiled. The longing in thy downy heart is for a silk clad, jessamine scented courtier, while I”—and he had had the unblushing effrontery to simulate a melancholy sigh—“am only a rough Afghan, a Soleymani of Soleymanis!”
“What then dost thou want with the princess—being only an Afghan?”
“News—I bring her! Splendid news! Happy news! Joyful news! News slashed with sun gold and nicked with the moon's silver glitter! News that will cause her to fill thy lap and mine with seventeen camels' loads of red Persian gold! But—the message is secret, Rejoicer of Souls! There must be no blabbing to that dried-up and malodorous goat udder of an Ayesha Zemzem, nor to that cousin of a dung heap who calls himself Al Nakia, nor to any leaky palace tongue. These be news only for the princess' rosy ears!"
“But—consider the laws of the harem …”
“Consider the pimples on the back of a cockroach! Laws! Do not quote laws to an Afghan. To do so would be like reciting the Koran to the buffalo about to gore thee. Away with thee, O Small, Soft Thing"—pinching her cheeks—“and call thy mistress!”
The slave girl had left, to return, a few minutes later, with the princess who, at the Afghan's first words, spoken in a very low voice, had burst into a shout of joy, and a quick exclamation of:
“The Haj—” as quickly stopped by the man's warning hiss:
