his head, the Ibrikdar Aga who washes his hands, the Peshkiriji Bashi
who dries them again, the Serbedji-Bashi who has a pleasant potion ready
for him, and the Ternakdji who carefully pares his nails. All these
grandees do obeisance to the very earth as they catch sight of the face
of the Padishah making his way through innumerable richly carved doors
on his way to his dressing-chamber.

This robing-room is a simple, hexagonal room, with lofty,
gold-entrellised window; its whole beauty consists in this, that the
walls are inlaid with amethysts, from whose jacinth-hued background
shine forth the more lustrous raised arabesques formed by topazes and
dalmatines. Precious stones are the delight of the Padishah. Every inch
of his garments is resplendent with diamonds, rubies, and pearls, his
very fingers are hidden by the rings which sparkle upon them. Pomp is
the very breath of his life. And his countenance well becomes this
splendour. It is a mild, gentle, radiant face, like the face of a father
when he moves softly among his loving children. His large, melancholy
eyes rest kindly on the face of everyone he beholds; his smooth,
delicate forehead is quite free from wrinkles. It would seem as if it
could never form into folds, as if its possessor could never be angry;
there is not a single grey hair in his well-kept, long black beard; it
would seem as if he knew not the name of grief, as if he were the very
Son of Happiness.

And so indeed he was. For seven-and-twenty years he had sat upon the
throne. It is possible that during these seven-and-twenty years many
changes may have taken place in the realm which could by no means call
for rejoicing, but Allah had blessed him with such a happy disposition
as to make him quite indifferent to these unfortunate events, in fact,
he did not trouble his head about them at all. Like the true