"Who is he?"

"Wait."

"What is his story?"

"She was." He nodded towards the funeral procession.

"Who was she?"

"She was a slave." Then, after a pause, "She was a genius too. She saw
what was in him. She was waiting--but death couldn't wait, so . . .
Every thing depends. What she asked him to do, he'll do."

"But if she didn't ask?"

"That's it. She was sick only seventeen hours--sick unto death. If she
didn't ask, he may come my way."

Again Dicky leaned out of the minaret, and looked down towards the gates
of the mosque, where the old gatekeeper lounged half-asleep. The noise
of the-procession had died away almost, had then revived, and from beyond
the gates of the mosque could be heard the cry of the mourners: "Salem
ala ahali!"

There came a knocking, and the old porter rose up, shuffled to the great
gates, and opened. For a moment he barred the way, but when the bearers
pointed to the figure in white he stepped aside and salaamed low.

"He is stone-deaf, and hasn't heard, or he'd have let her in fast