freedom? Fakrash had learnt
his lesson: he was not likely to interfere again in human affairs; he
might find his way back to the Palace of the Mountain of the Clouds and
end his days there, in peaceful enjoyment of the society of such of the
Jinn as might still survive unbottled.

So, obeying--against his own interests--some kindlier impulse, Horace
made an effort to deter the Jinnee, who was already hovering in air
above the neck of the bottle in a swirl of revolving draperies, like
some blundering old bee vainly endeavouring to hit the opening into his
hive.

"Mr. Fakrash," he cried, "before you go any farther, listen to me.
There's no real necessity, after all, for you to go back to your bottle.
If you'll only wait a little----"

But the Jinnee, who had now swelled to gigantic proportions, and whose
form and features were only dimly recognisable through the wreaths of
black vapour in which he was involved, answered him from his pillar of
smoke in a terrible voice. "Wouldst thou still persuade me to linger?"
he cried. "Hold thy peace and be ready to fulfil thine undertaking."

"But, look here," persisted Horace. "I should feel such a brute if I
sealed you up without telling you----" The whirling and roaring column,
in shape like an inverted cone, was being fast sucked down into the
vessel, till only a semi-materialised but highly infuriated head was
left above the neck of the bottle.

"Must I tarry," it cried, "till the Lord Mayor arrive with his Memlooks,
and the hour of safety is expired? By my head, if thou delayest another
instant, I will put no more faith in thee! And I will come forth once
more, and afflict thee and thy friends--ay, and all the dwellers in this
accursed city--with the most painful and unheard-of calamities."

And, with these words, the head sank into the bottle with a loud clap
resembling thunder.

Horace hesitated no longer. The Jinnee himself had absolved him from all
further scruples; to imperil Sylvia and her parents--not to mention all
London--out of consideration for one obstinate and obnoxious old demon,
would clearly be carrying sentiment much too far.

Accordingly, he made a rush for the jar and slipped the metal cover over
the mouth of the neck, which was so hot that it blistered his fingers,
and, seizing the poker, he hammered down the secret catch until the lid
fitted as closely as Suleyman himself could have required.

Then he stuffed the bottle into a kit-bag, adding a fe