Three days later, amidst great excitement that spread from the streets and bazaars and mosques, where the cries of the populace were like a noise of a distant sea ebbing and flowing and whirling and eddying in regular beats, to the highest turret of the Gengizkhani palace where the “Watcher of the Far Places” broke into high-pitched ululations of triumph, Koom Khan rode into town. He was at the head of a picked squadron of the recent rebels—now loyal supporters of Aziza Nurmahal, as they shouted to the throng—and near the end of the cortège, astride donkeys, their hands bound behind their backs and their heads facing the animals' tails, came Mr. Preserved Higgins and The Honorable Tollemache Wade—butts for the crude jests of the populace, also for a number of decrepit lemons and melons and eggs.
A great wave of joy surged from end to end of the capital: the turmoil and strife was over, once more peace had returned to the land, and even the Sheik-ul-Islam, who had sneaked back into town, none knew when and why, gave pious and hypocritical thanks that Khizr, the green star of peace and plenty, was again blessing Tamerlanistan, quoting learnedly from the Koran, proving his point by quoting about ten chapters from the Marah al-Falah, and then reënforcing his opinion by five hundred lines from the Sharh Ayni.
Joy and excitement and an impromptu holiday—the noisy holiday of Asia—with tents and ambling coffee houses, cook shops and lemonade stands, toy booths and merry-go-rounds jumping from the ground like mushrooms—and bear leaders and ballad singers,
