"I should hardly have thought from your appearance, sir, that you had
been so many years in bottle as all that," said Horace, politely, "but
it's certainly time you had a change. May I, if it isn't indiscreet, ask
how you came into such a very uncomfortable position? But probably you
have forgotten by this time."

"Forgotten!" said the other, with a sombre red glow in his opal eyes.
"Wisely was it written: 'Let him that desireth oblivion confer
benefits--but the memory of an injury endureth for ever.' _I_ forget
neither benefits nor injuries."

"An old gentleman with a grievance," thought Ventimore. "And mad into
the bargain. Nice person to have staying in the same house with one!"

"Know, O best of mankind," continued the stranger, "that he who now
addresses thee is Fakrash-el-Aamash, one of the Green Jinn. And I dwelt
in the Palace of the Mountain of the Clouds above the City of Babel in
the Garden of Irem, which thou doubtless knowest by repute?"

"I fancy I _have_ heard of it," said Horace, as if it were an address in
the Court Directory. "Delightful neighbourhood."

"I had a kinswoman, Bedeea-el-Jemal, who possessed incomparable beauty
and manifold accomplishments. And seeing that, though a Jinneeyeh, she
was of the believing Jinn, I despatched messengers to Suleyman the
Great, the son of Daood, offering him her hand in marriage. But a
certain Jarjarees, the son of Rejmoos, the son of Iblees--may he be for
ever accursed!--looked with favour upon the maiden, and, going secretly
unto Suleyman, persuaded him that I was preparing a crafty snare for the
King's undoing."

"And, of course, _you_ never thought of such a thing?" said Ventimore.

"By a venomous tongue the fairest motives may be rendered foul," was the
somewhat evasive reply. "Thus it came to pass that Suleyman--on whom be
peace!--listened unto the voice of Jarjarees and refused to receive the
maiden. Moreover, he commanded that I should be seized and imprisoned in
a bottle of brass and cast into the Sea of El-Karkar, there to abide the
Day of Doom."

"Too bad--really too bad!" murmured Horace, in a tone that he could only
hope was sufficiently sympathetic.

"But now, by thy means, O thou of noble ancestors and gentle
disposition, my deliverance hath been accomplished; and if I were to
serve thee for a thousand years, regarding nothing else, even thus could
I not requite thee, and my so doing would be a small thing according to
thy desserts!"

"