the walls wainscoted in Moorish mosaics and lined
by broad divans covered with silken rugs. Small
tables stand about holding trays of cigarettes and
sweets. Over against a window overlooking a garden
lounges a group of women--some young, some old,
one or two of them black as coal. It is the harem
of the Pasha, the father of Mahmoud, Prince of the
Rising Sun, Chosen of the Faithful, Governor of a
province, and of forty other things beside--most
of which Joe had forgotten.

Months had passed since that night in the arbor.
Yuleima had cried her eyes out, and Mahmoud had
shaken his fists and belabored his head, swearing
by the beard of the Prophet that come what might
Yuleima should be his.

Then came the death of the paternal potentate,
and the young lover was free--free to come and go,
to love, to hate; free to follow the carriage of his
imperial master in his race up the hill after the ceremony
of the Selamlik; free to choose any number of
Yuleimas for his solace; free to do whatever pleased
him--except to make the beautiful Yuleima his
spouse. This the High-Mightinesses forbade. There
were no personal grounds for their objection. The
daughter of the rich Bagdad merchant was as gentle
as a doe, beautiful as a star seen through the soft
mists of the morning, and of stainless virtue. Her
father had ever been a loyal subject, giving of his