nd has assured me
that nothing was more unfounded or indeed impossible; that the faith,
ancient and beautiful, never prevailed in the land of his fathers; and
that the reason why he was acquainted with the god-like forms is, that
in his country it is the custom (custom to me most singular, and indeed
incomprehensible) to educate the youth by teaching them the ancient
poems of the Greeks, poems quite lost to us, but in which are embalmed
the sacred legends.'

'We ought never to be surprised at anything that is done by the
English,' observed Fakredeen; 'who are, after all, in a certain sense,
savages. Their country produces nothing; it is an island, a mere rock,
larger than Malta, but not so well fortified. Everything they require
is imported from other countries; they get their corn from Odessa, and
their wine from the ports of Spain. I have been assured at Beiroot that
they do not grow even their own cotton, but that I can hardly believe.
Even their religion is an exotic; and as they are indebted for that to
Syria, it is not surprising that they should import their education from
Greece.'

'Poor people!' exclaimed the Queen; 'and yet they travel; they wish to
improve themselves?'

'Darkush, however,' continued Fakredeen, without noticing the last
observation of Astarte, 'was not wrongly informed.'

'Not wrongly informed?'

'No: one of the princes who wished to visit Gindarics was, in a certain
sense, of the ancient and beautiful faith, but it was not the Prince of
the English.'

'What are these pigeons that you are flying without letters!' exclaimed
Astarte, looking very perplexed.

'Ah! beautiful Astarte,' said Fakredeen, with a sigh; 'you did not know
my mother.'

'How should I know your mother, Emir of the castles of Lebanon? Have I
ever left these mountains, which are dearer to me than the pyramids of
Egypt to the great Pasha? Have I ever looked upon your women, Maronite
or Druse, walking in white sheets, as if they were the children of ten
thousand ghouls; with horns on their heads, as if they were the wild
horses of the desert?'

'Ask Keferinis,' said Fakredeen, still sighing; 'he has been at
Bteddeen, the court of the Emir Bescheer. He knew my mother, at least by
memory. My mother, beautiful Astarte, was an Ansarey.'

'Your mother was an Ansarey!' repeated Astarte, in a tone of infinite
surprise; 'your mother an Ansarey? Of what family was she a child?'

'Ah!' replied Fakredeen, 'there it is; that