seen not only the old mullah dozing between prayer calls, but a figure upon whom his eyes should not have rested. At least when they did fall upon the unveiled form of a pretty girl——presumably the mullah’s daughter—moving among the flowers, Lambert should have retired from the roof,——i.e. according to the strict rule of Aurungnugur propriety. But being an American, Lambert saw no harm in observing a pretty girl’s actions, attractively attired, as she was, in the Mohammedan fashion, with a jaunty little red velvet, fringed cap to set off her dark curls, an embroidered waist revealing a shapely neck, and filmy skirts shot with gold and silver thread.
That the girl was aware of Lambert’s presence was unlikely, because otherwise she would not have come and sang love refrains to the accompaniment of a tinkling sitar almost under his window. He was sure she was not the kind of girl to make such advances. But one night, before the moon had risen to shed a silver stream on the white dome of the mosque, an incident happened which set Lambert to reflection. From below two whispering voices fluttered upward and fell reminiscently upon his ears. Apparently he was made the sole custodian of a secret. At least not entirely so, though the other witnesses hardly counted—as yet. Under the wide eaves, from whence sprang the ledge of a tottering buttress, a family of monkeys had taken up their residence. They also helped to entertain Lambert’s leisure hours, particularly the antics of a gray whiskered old fellow with whom Lambert had got upon friendly terms by the purchase of sticky bazaar sweetmeats. That purchased friendship is of no value, is the moral which Lambert insists should wind up his story.
