sist on my making a
fool of myself, I suppose I must. But where am I to drive, and why?"

"That," replied Fakrash, "thou shalt discover at the fitting moment."
And so, amidst the shouts of the spectators, Ventimore climbed up into
the strange-looking vehicle, while the Jinnee took his seat by his side.
Horace had a parting glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. Rapkin's respective noses
flattened against the basement window, and then two dusky slaves mounted
to a seat at the back of the chariot, and the horses started off at a
stately trot in the direction of Rochester Row.

"I think you might tell me what all this means," he said. "You've no
conception what an ass I feel, stuck up here like this!"

"Dismiss bashfulness from thee, since all this is designed to render
thee more acceptable in the eyes of the Princess Bedeea," said the
Jinnee.

Horace said no more, though he could not but think that this parade
would be thrown away.

But as they turned into Victoria Street and seemed to be heading
straight for the Abbey, a horrible thought occurred to him. After all,
his only authority for the marriage and decease of Bedeea was the
"Arabian Nights," which was not unimpeachable evidence. What if she were
alive and waiting for the arrival of the bridegroom? No one but Fakrash
would have conceived such an idea as marrying him to a Jinneeyeh in
Westminster Abbey; but he was capable of any extravagance, and there
were apparently no limits to his power.

"Mr. Fakrash," he said hoarsely, "surely this isn't my--my wedding day?
You're not going to have the ceremony _there_?"

"Nay," said the Jinnee, "be not impatient. For this edifice would be
totally unfitted for the celebration of such nuptials as thine."

As he spoke, the chariot left the Abbey on the right and turned down the
Embankment. The relief was so intense that Horace's spirits rose
irrepressibly. It was absurd to suppose that even Fakrash could have
arranged the ceremony in so short a time. He was merely being taken for
a drive, and fortunately his best friends could not recognise him in his
Oriental disguise. And it was a glorious morning, with a touch of frost
in the air and a sky of streaky turquoise and pale golden clouds; the
broad river glittered in the sunshine; the pavements were lined with
admiring crowds, and the carriage rolled on amidst frantic enthusiasm,
like some triumphal car.

"How they're cheering us!" said Horace. "Why, they couldn't make more
row for the