arguments had been the excuse by which he had converted himself. Was he
converted? was it real?

"Yes--I think I am," he replied in the same mechanical monotonous
accent.

I shook myself, drank some sherbet, and kicked off one shoe impatiently.
Was I dreaming? or had I been speaking aloud, really putting the
questions he answered so quickly and appositively? Pshaw! a coincidence.
I called the servant and ordered my hookah to be refilled. Isaacs sat
still, immovable, lost in thought, looking at his toes; an expression,
almost stupid in its vacancy, was on his face, and the smoke curled
slowly up in lazy wreaths from his neglected narghyle.

"You are converted then at last?" I said aloud. No answer followed my
question; I watched him attentively.

"Mr. Isaacs!" still silence, was it possible that he had fallen asleep?
his eyes were open, but I thought he was very pale. His upright
position, however, belied any symptoms of unconsciousness.

"Isaacs! Abdul Hafiz! what is the matter!" He did not move. I rose to my
feet and knelt beside him where he sat rigid, immovable, like a statue.
Kiramat Ali, who had been watching, clapped his hands wildly and cried,
"Wah! wah! Sahib margyâ!"--"The lord is dead." I motioned him away with
a gesture and he held his peace, cowering in the corner, his eyes fixed
on us. Then I bent low as I knelt and looked under my friend's brows,
into his eyes. It was clear he did not see me, though he was looking
straight at his feet. I felt for his pulse. It was very low, almost
imperceptible, and certainly below forty beats to the minute. I took his