of his nephew to the English nobleman.

"Come, tell the story of thy day!" he too insisted. At first it had
not been a happy one, Iskender told them. He had tried to paint the
beauty of the sea between two dunes, but it turned to a blue gate on
yellow gate-posts; then a boat turned upside down upon the beach, but
the portrait made resembled nothing earthly. Then the Englishman had
taught him a new way, and things went well, and he had drawn a
camel.~.~.~.

He was opening his sketch-book to display the masterpiece; but his
mother shrieked:

"Who cares to hear all that. Tell of the Englishman; how came he with
thee?"

"They stoned me," he replied indifferently; "and I was running from
them, weeping, when he met me, and I cried to him in English to protect
me. He had compassion on me, and admired my pictures----"

Iskender became aware that his companions were no longer listening, so
stopped abruptly. His uncle seemed to think some miracle had happened,
for he heard him praising Allah and the Holy Virgin, the while his
mother kept exclaiming in her shrill-pitched tones. His mind strayed
far from them, occupying itself with distant features of the landscape.
All the earth was now obscure: stars sparkled in the dome of the sky.
From a high, sandy neck their path surmounted, he beheld the minarets
of the town, seeming to cut the sky above the sharp sea-line. The
timbre of his mother's voice made for inattention like the monotonous
shrill note of the cicada; and he had at all times a trick of
projecting his wits into the scene around him, whence it needed a shout
to re-collect them, as she knew to her grievance. She shouted now, and
punched him in the back:

"Forget not to tell the Emir that thou art a Brutestant, which is half
an Englishman."

Jarred in his bones by her shrillness, he exclaimed:

"Merciful Allah! Is my mother mad? The Emir! In the name of angels,
what Emir?"

"O Holy Maryam! Am I not unblessed in such a son? What wonder that
the priest and the ladies favour the son of Costantin--may his house be
destroyed!--who has at least the grace to listen when one speaks to
him.~.~.~. Thou goest in the morning to the Hotel Barudi, to visit
formally this English youth, who is an Emir in his own country, and
proffer thy services. Thou wilt present thyself before him, not as now
in a soiled kaftan, but in thy best. Give him to know how thy mother
is esteemed by the missionaries, how thou art th