moking for a while, an attendant came to tell
me that my supper was prepared in the inner apartment of the tent
(I suppose that the reader, if he be possessed of the commonest
intelligence, knows that the tents of the Indian grandees are made of
the finest Cashmere shawls, and contain a dozen rooms at least, with
carpets, chimneys, and sash-windows complete). I entered, I say, into an
inner chamber, and there began with my fingers to devour my meal in the
Oriental fashion, taking, every now and then, a pull from the wine-jar,
which was cooling deliciously in another jar of snow.

I was just in the act of despatching the last morsel of a most savory
stewed lamb and rice, which had formed my meal, when I heard a scuffle
of feet, a shrill clatter of female voices, and, the curtain being flung
open, in marched a lady accompanied by twelve slaves, with moon faces
and slim waists, lovely as the houris in Paradise.

The lady herself, to do her justice, was as great a contrast to her
attendants as could possibly be: she was crooked, old, of the complexion
of molasses, and rendered a thousand times more ugly by the tawdry dress
and the blazing jewels with which she was covered. A line of yellow
chalk drawn from her forehead to the tip of her nose (which was further
ornamented by an immense glittering nose-ring), her eyelids painted
bright red, and a large dab of the same color on her chin, showed she
was not of the Mussulman, but the Brahmin faith--and of a very high
caste; you could see that by her eyes. My mind was instantaneously made
up as to my line of action.

The male attendants had of course quitted the apartment, as they heard
the well-known sound of her voice. It would have been death to them
to have remained and looked in her face. The females ranged themselves
round their mistress, as she squatted down opposite to me.

"And is this," said she, "a welcome, O Khan! after six months' absence,
for the most unfortunate and loving wife in all the world? Is this lamb,
O glutton! half so tender as thy spouse? Is this wine, O sot! half so
sweet as her looks?"

I saw the storm was brewing--her slaves, to whom she turned, kept up a
kind of chorus:--

"Oh, the faithless one!" cried they. "Oh, the rascal, the false one, who
has no eye for beauty, and no heart for love, like the Khanum's!"

"A lamb is not so sweet as love," said I gravely: "but a lamb has a good
temper; a wine-cup is not so intoxicating as a woman--but a wi