rt I could accomplish;
but Narayan Singh came to the rescue again. He thumped a fist on
his chest as if it were a drum, and glared indignantly.

"Would I, a Pathan of the Orakzai, demean myself by being servant
to a Persian?" he demanded. "Lo! We bring gifts. What manner of
desert man are you that reward us with insults!"

"Peace!" I said. "Peace!" remembering the Sikh's counsel about
the middle course I should pursue. "The Lion is sick. May Allah
take pity on him!"

Narayan Singh growled in his beard by way of submitting to the mild
rebuke, and Ali Higg--a little bit impressed perhaps--proceeded
to question me on doctrine and theology, showing a zeal for
splitting hairs that would have done credit to a Cairo _m'allim._
But I had had lots of instruction on those points, and in fact
surprised him with a trite fanaticism equal to his own, ending
with a statement that whoever did not believe every article
and precept of the Sunni faith not only was damned forever
beyond hope, but should be despatched in a hurry to face
the dreadful consequences.

His eyes softened considerably at that; and for the moment I
think he almost approved of me, in spite of the foreign accent
that must have grated on his ears, and his national dislike of
any one who hailed from India. He actually told both of us to be
seated, and clapped his hands again. Another woman came, looking
dreadfully afraid of him.

"Coffee!" he ordered.

We sat down on the ledge of rock in front of him, for although it
was hardly wise to seem too deferent, it would have been most
unwise to move away and give him an unobstructed view of the
valley, where Grim might be in sight or might not be. Our job was
to gain time.

He did not say a word until the coffee came, beyond swearing
scandalously when he moved his head and the boils hurt.

"O Allah, may Your neck hurt You as mine does me!"

I thought that pretty good for such a hard-and-fast doctrinaire,
but it was almost mild compared to some of his other remarks.

The woman brought the coffee on a tray in little silver cups--as
good and as well served as if our host were a Cairene pasha; but
our irascible host took none, for Ayisha called out and warned
him not to, saying it would heat his boils.

She came like the wife of Heber the Kenite, who slew Sisera,
"bringing forth butter in a lordly dish." She held in both hands
a marvelous Persian rose-bowl half filled with clabber, saying
she had prepared it for