"This is good talk, once, twice; when it is heard too often it becomes
foolish, like the prattle of children."

"Many, many times have I seen the cloudy sky and have heard the wind of
the rainy seasons," said Babalatchi, impressively.

"And where is your wisdom? It must be with the wind and the clouds of
seasons past, for I do not hear it in your talk."

"Those are the words of the ungrateful!" shouted Babalatchi, with sudden
exasperation. "Verily, our only refuge is with the One, the Mighty, the
Redresser of . . ."

"Peace! Peace!" growled the startled Lakamba. "It is but a friend's
talk."

Babalatchi subsided into his former attitude, muttering to himself.
After awhile he went on again in a louder voice--

"Since the Rajah Laut left another white man here in Sambir, the
daughter of the blind Omar el Badavi has spoken to other ears than
mine."

"Would a white man listen to a beggar's daughter?" said Lakamba,
doubtingly.

"Hai! I have seen . . ."

"And what did you see? O one-eyed one!" exclaimed Lakamba,
contemptuously.