orn of royal blood.'

'Pr'ythee, no more, kind uncle. I have but little heart to mount a
throne, which only ranks me as the first of slaves.'

'Pooh, pooh, you are young. Live we like slaves? Is this hall a servile
chamber? These costly carpets, and these rich divans, in what proud
harem shall we find their match? I feel not like a slave. My coffers are
full of dirhems. Is that slavish? The wealthiest company of the caravan
is ever Bostenay's. Is that to be a slave? Walk the bazaar of Bagdad,
and you will find my name more potent than the Caliph's. Is that a badge
of slavery?'

'Uncle, you toil for others.'

'So do we all, so does the bee, yet he is free and happy.'

'At least he has a sting.'

'Which he can use but once, and when he stings----'

'He dies, and like a hero. Such a death is sweeter than his honey.'

'Well, well, you are young, you are young. I once, too, had fancies.
Dreams all, dreams all. I willingly would see you happy, child. Come,
let that face brighten; after all, to-day is a great day. If you had
seen what I have seen, David, you too would feel grateful. Come, let
us feast. The Ishmaelite, the accursed child of Hagar, he does confess
to-day that you are a prince; this day also you complete your eighteenth
year. The custom of our people now requires that you should assume the
attributes of manhood. To-day, then, your reign commences; and at
our festival I will present the elders to their prince. For a while,
farewell, my child. Array that face in smiles. I shall most anxiously
await your presence.'

'Farewell, sir.'

He turned his head and watched his uncle as he departed: the bitter
expression of his countenance gradually melted away as Bostenay
disappeared: dejection succeeded to sarcasm; he sighed, he threw himself
upon a couch and buried his face in his hands.

Suddenly he arose and paced the chamber with an irregular and moody
step. He stopped, and leant against a column. He spoke in a tremulous
and smothered voice:

'Oh! my heart is full of care, and my soul is dark with sorrow! What
am I? What is all this? A cloud hangs heavy o'er my life. God of my
fathers, let it burst!

'I know not what I feel, yet what I feel is madness. Thus to be is not
to live, if life be what I sometimes dream, and dare to think it might
be. To breathe, to feed, to sleep, to wake and breathe again, again to
feel existence without hope; if this be life, why then these brooding
thoughts that whisper dea