Three days had passed. The khan remained sunk in a stupor caused by the medicines administered by the Persian physician, who hovered constantly around the bedside of his patient. Burah now lay in a well aired, high vaulted chamber. The musk-scented cushions had been ostracised, the dancing girls dismissed. Quiet reigned throughout the vast palace.
Occasionally Agahr would thrust his head through the curtains draping the entrance, as if seeking to know that all was well; but the Persian merely gave him a reassuring nod and motioned him away.
This summary banishment did not please the vizier. His daughter had assisted him in forming several plans of great political import, and the conduct of the foreignphysician prevented their being carried to a successful issue.
Thus Agahr, appearing again at the entrance, beckoned with imperative gesture the Persian to join him; and, after a careful inspection of his patient, lying peaceful and unconscious, the physician obeyed.
Together they paced up and down the deserted marble passage, the Persian’s quick eye never leaving the entrance to the khan’s chamber, while Agahr plied him with eager questions concerning his master’s condition.
“He will live until his son, the Prince Ahmed, arrives,” said the other, calmly. “He will remain unconscious, but he will live.”
“And then?” asked the vizier, anxiously.
“Then I will awaken him. He will have full command of all his faculties for a brief period—and then he will pass away quickly.”
Agahr sighed.
“Is it not possible for him to pass away during this stupor?” he enquired.
“Yes, it is possible,” answered the Persian.“But I believe I can prevent that. My task requires constant vigilance: that is why I dare not leave the Khan’s chamber.”
“I will send a man to relieve you,” said the vizier. “You can instruct him in his duties and he will be faithful.”
“No,” returned the Persian.
An awkward silence followed. Then Agahr stopped suddenly and said:
“I will be frank with you. The son of Burah Khan is not the rightful heir to the throne of Mekran. It is the exiled Prince Kasam, from whose grandsire Keedar Khan by right of sword wrested all Baluchistan. Therefore it is best for the country that Burah does not live until his son arrives.”
He paused, wiping the perspiration from his brow and glancing half fearfully into the grave face of the physician. The latter nodded.
“I understand,” said he.
Agahr became reassured.
“The ancestors of Prince Kasam,” he continued, earnestly, “ruled the land for nine generations. Then the Baluchi rebelledand put their Headsman, the fierce Keedar Khan, upon the throne his own brother was forced to vacate. I being at the time vizier, remained Keedar’s vizier, as I have remained vizier to his son. By means of wars and bloodshed these terrible men have for forty-six years dominated all Baluchistan. It is now time, in the interest of justice and humanity, that the rightful heir should recover the throne.”
“Did not Prince Kasam’s ancestors conquer this country with the aid of the Afghans, and put to death every member of the then reigning family?” asked the Persian.
“It is a matter of history,” said Agahr, proudly. “They were my ancestors, these bold conquerors, as well as the ancestors of Prince Kasam.”
“Yet Keedar Khan made you his vizier, and his son retained you?”
“Yes; and I have been faithful.”
“But now, it seems to me, you are speaking treason,” said the physician.
“Not so,” declared the vizier, indignantly. “Burah Khan, by your own showing,is virtually dead at this moment. I owe no allegiance to his son, whom I have never seen.”
“How is that?” asked the physician, in surprise.
“When Ahmed was a child his father, fearing a revolt and that his boy might fall by an assassin’s knife, placed him in the Sunnite monastery at Takkatu for safe keeping. There he has remained ever since. It will be necessary for Burah Khan to officially acknowledge him before the chiefs of the Nine Tribes and to appoint him his own successor, before Ahmed can legally occupy the throne. If this is not done the people, who are weary of the rule of these tyrants, will acclaim Kasam as khan.”
“But Prince Ahmed will arrive, and be acknowledged. Burah Khan has so willed it, and he is still the master.”
Agahr faced the Persian with an angry frown.
“Do you refuse to assist us?” he asked, sharply.
“I refuse to betray the man whose life Ihave promised to preserve until his son arrives,” declared the physician.
“But you are a stranger—a Persian.”
“Even so.”
“And you expect a reward, or you would not have hastened to Mekran when summoned by the Khan. Name your price. I will double it, and you shall depart this very night.”
The Persian smiled.
“Here, and throughout the world,” said he, “the strongest argument is the clink of gold. Listen well, your Excellency. I have promised Burah Khan life for seven days. I shall keep my promise. Then, if the Prince does not come, I can do no more.”
The vizier started.
“If the Prince does not come?” he repeated, thoughtfully.
“To be sure.”
“Ah! I had not thought of that!” exclaimed the old man.
“It is the only thing I fear,” said the other, with exasperating coolness; “but I rely upon Dirrag. If you are able to delayhim you will doubtless win the throne for Prince Kasam.”
Before the mocking tones had died away the physician disappeared behind the draperies of the khan’s chamber, and the vizier, controlling his anger and chagrin as best he might, walked away to concoct further plans.
The woman who brought the Persian his evening meal became confused under his sharp scrutiny and started to retire hurriedly. He arrested her with a stern command, saying:
“Sit here and taste of the dish you have brought.”
Then she began to tremble.
“Master, I dare not!” she wailed.
“Very well. Take away this food and bring me eggs boiled in the shell.”
The physician was bending over the couch of the khan when one of the under cooks entered silently with the eggs. The man was of the Brahoe caste, small and wiry. He placed the eggs upon the table and eyed for a time the back of the tall Persian, who seemed intent upon his patient.But a moment later he suddenly straightened, threw back his hand and caught the wrist of the Brahoe in a firm grasp.
A dagger fell upon the rug, and the man shrank back shuddering before the gleaming eyes of the physician.
An instant they remained motionless. Then, releasing his prisoner, the physician picked up the dagger, placed it within his own bosom and seated himself quietly at the table. One of the eggs he cast aside; there was a tiny pin-hole through the shell. The others he ate with his usual composure. As he raised a cup of water to his lips the Brahoe, who had watched him with amazement, suddenly stretched out his hand in warning.
“Wait! it is poisoned,” he whispered. “I will bring you more.”
Swiftly he glided away and presently returned with a fresh bowl of clear water.
The physician drank without hesitation.
“You may go,” said he, setting down the bowl.
“Master,” said the man, “be warned.You are surrounded by dangers. But you are brave, and I am your servant henceforth. Eat hereafter only the food I bring you.”
The Persian nodded and gave the Brahoe a smile. Still the man hesitated, peering cautiously about as if suspecting listeners. Finally he came nearer and said in a low voice:
“I do not know all; your foes are cunning and powerful. But the old khan is not to live the seven days. And life is lightly esteemed in Mekran—if it stands in the way of a purpose. Do not sleep tonight.”
“I never sleep,” returned the Persian, looking upon the man curiously.
Indeed, the critical condition of Burah Khan seemed to require his constant attention. The strange physician watched the silent form carefully throughout the night, and only once noted a slight movement of the draperies that guarded the entrance to the chamber.
At daybreak he drew the curtains of the windows to let in the light, and turned about in time to dash his heel upon the headof a small but venomous serpent that was poised to strike him with its fangs. Some one had placed it in the room during the night—a messenger of death to either the Khan or his physician, it mattered little which.
The Persian stared at the writhing snake a moment and made a gesture of impatience.
“It is only the fourth day,” he muttered. “I wonder where Dirrag is.”
An hour later the woman brought in his breakfast.
“Where is the Brahoe?” he demanded, sharply.
“He was found dead this morning,” said the woman, shuddering. “Some enemy, it seems, strangled him while he slept.”
The frown upon the Persian’s brow was so fierce that the woman slipped away in terror.
“It is only the fourth day,” he growled again, between set teeth; “but the Khan shall live until the seventh day—unless Dirrag comes before. I have sworn it, and, by Allah, I will keep my oath!”
A young man paced with nervous strides an open gallery of the ancient monastery of Mehmet, set high upon the mountain peak of Takkatu. He was tall and slender, his face worn thin by fasting and endless vigils, his shoulders stooping, his hands so emaciated that the fingers resembled eagles’ talons. His forehead was high and protruding; his eyes bright and glistening; but the lower part of his face, from the small, delicate nose to the receding chin, indicated a weak and vacillating character.
Prone upon a narrow divan against the wall reclined another man, also young but of stalwart, rugged frame and with calm and well-fashioned features. His pose was absolutely without motion: not even a muscletwitched. The dark lashes lay over his closed eyes without a tremor.
Both wore the loose yellow gowns and high turbans of the Sunnite novitiates, but the one who paced the marble tiles had a band of white around his flowing sleeve—an indication of his superior degree.
Through the open peristyle came spicy breezes from near-by Araby. The sun cast intense shadows; a mighty stillness enveloped the monastery, as if the world slept.
The two novitiates were not alone. On a stone bench near the outer arches was seated an aged priest, clothed all in pure white, whose set face and hard, unseeing eyes indicated him wholly oblivious of his surroundings. Neither the young men seemed to consider his presence, although from time to time the nervous pacer would cast a swift glance in his direction.
Suddenly the latter paused before the divan.
“Give me your counsel, Hafiz!” said he, addressing the prostrate form. “Tell me what I must do.”
The man upon the divan moved and sat up, regarding the other gravely with clear grey eyes.
“Well?” said he.
“Must I submit to it?” asked the other, eagerly. “Has my father the right to make this unreasonable, unjust, shameful demand?”
Hafiz nodded.
“After all these years of study and research,” continued the slender brother, with a passionate gesture, “after a life devoted to religious concentration, to the worship of Allah and His divine manifestations on earth; after delving far into the inner mysteries of the Faith and seeing the day approach when I shall become of the Imaum—after this holy life in this holy temple must I be dragged into the coarse, material world again? Bah! it is outrageous—impossible!”
“Yet imperative,” added the man on the divan.
His companion had resumed his agitated walk, but suddenly paused again and cast a frightened look at the placid countenanceturned upon him. Then the frown faded from his own brow; his eyes softened and he said, gently:
“Forgive me, dear Hafiz! I am beside myself with grief. Tell me what I must do!”
“They have sent for you?” asked Hafiz.
“Yes. My father, the Khan, who has forgotten me since I came here, a little child, is now dying, and he commands my presence that I may succeed him as ruler of the tribes of Mekran.”
“Have you known e’er this that you were Prince of Mekran?”
“Not till this hour, when our beloved mufti revealed to me the tidings.”
“Butheknew it?” said Hafiz, with a glance toward the entranced priest by the arch.
“Yes; he knew it, but preserved the knowledge. It seems there was reason for this. My father’s house has powerful enemies, who would gladly have murdered his heir in childhood. So that no one but the Khan and his trusted vizier knew where I have been hidden all these years. And I—I have grown to manhood with the belief that I might devote my life to religion; yet now, when my soul craves peace and that exaltation which is accorded only to Allah’s chosen servants, I am rudely summoned to a life of worldly turmoil, to take part in endless political intrigues and brutal warfares—all of which my spirit loathes.”
“’Tis fate, Ahmed,” said the other, thoughtfully, “and to be borne with the resignation our creed teaches. You are of royal birth, of an ancient line of heaven-born rulers, and you must fulfill your destiny.”
“Ah, now you have given me my argument,” retorted Ahmed, with a quick smile. “I am not of an ancient line of heaven-born rulers. We are usurpers.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. My grandfather, according to the tale I have just heard, was a younger brother of the reigning khan, whom he ruthlessly slew and supplanted. By terrible and bloody wars my grandsire Keedar conquered the tribes that were faithful to his brother’s son, and forced them to acknowledgeand obey him. A fierce man was Keedar Khan, and always more hated than loved. But before he died all Baluchistan rendered him homage, and his son, my father, proved as stern and warlike as his sire. For thirty years he has ruled with an iron hand, and is today known to the world as the Lion of Mekran.”
“Yet he is dying?”
“He is dying; and he sends for me, his only child, that I may be acknowledged his successor before the assembled sirdars of the nation.”
“You must go.”
“Think what that means!”
“You will be khan.”
“Ruler of a nation of disaffected tribes, half of whom are eager to return to the allegiance of their rightful sovereign and who have only been held in subjection through two generations by the might of an iron will and the right of a gleaming sword.”
“Who is this rightful sovereign you mention?”
“My cousin Kasam, whom I have neverheard of until this day. He has been educated in foreign lands, I am told, to guard him from my father—as I have been reared in this holy place to prevent my being killed by the enemies of our house.”
“And you would reject a throne—a throne bequeathed you by a warrior sire—because there is a pretender to the place?” asked Hafiz, with calm features but sparkling eyes. “It was by the sword the first royal family reigned in Mekran; it is by the sword your family reigns. Your duty is to your own kin. Let your strong arm maintain the power your ancestors have won and established!”
Ahmed shrank from the flashing eyes of his friend and spread out his palms with a deprecating gesture.
“I am no warrior, Hafiz. I am an humble servant of Allah. In a month I shall be Imaum!”
Hafiz gazed upon the slender, shrinking form of the heir of Mekran with earnestness. Truly it seemed unwise to urge the gentle devotee to abandon the monastery for the intrigue of a palace. He sighed, thisstalwart, broad-shouldered monk of Takkatu, and reclined anew upon the divan.
“I wish,” he said, regretfully, “I had been born the son of your father.”
For a time Ahmed resumed his fretful pacing of the gallery, and no sound but his footsteps fell upon the ears of the three. The aged priest still sat, immobile, at his post, and the tall monk reclined as motionless upon his divan.
At times Ahmed would pause and wring his thin hands, murmuring: “I cannot! I cannot leave this holy place. In a month I shall be Imaum—a chosen comrade of the Prophet!”
A bell, low-toned and sweet, chimed from a neighboring spire. At the summons the priest stirred and turned himself to the east, the involuntary action being imitated by the younger men. Then all three cast themselves prone upon the marble floor, while a distant voice came softly but clearly to their ears, chanting the words: “Allah is great. There no god but Allah. Come ye to prayer. Come ye to security!”
As the tones faded away Ahmed groaned,repeating the words: “Security! come ye to security! O Allah, help me!”
But the others remained silent and motionless for a protracted time, and even Ahmed ceased his muttering and succumbed to the impressiveness of the mid-day prayer.
Finally the priest arose and made a sign.
“Retire, my son,” said he to Ahmed, “and compose thy soul to peace. Allah has shown me the way.”
The young man gave a start, his features suffused with a glow of delight, his eyes sparkling joyfully. Then he bowed low before the mufti and left the gallery with steady steps.
Hafiz remained, curiously regarding the aged priest, whose lean face now wore a look of keen intelligence. He came close to the stalwart novitiate and fixed upon him a piercing gaze.
“Allah is above all,” he said, “and Mahomet is the Prophet of Allah. Next to them stands the Khan—the Protector of the Faith.”
“It is true,” answered Hafiz.
“Prince Kasam has been educated in London.His faith, be he still true to Mahomet, is lax. For the glory of Allah and the protection of our order, a true believer must rule at Mekran. The son of Burah Khan must sit in his father’s place.”
“It is true,” said Hafiz, again.
“Yet our beloved brother, Ahmed, is about to become of the Imaum. His soul is with Allah. His hand is not fitted to grasp the sword. Shall we rob the Faith of its most earnest devotee?”
The calm grey eyes and the glittering black ones met, and a wave of intelligence vibrated between them.
Hafiz made no reply in words, and the priest paused in deep thought. At length he continued.
“For seven years, my brother, you have been one of us, and we have learned to love you. You came among us fresh from a life tragedy. You suffered. Allah comforted you, and within our walls you found peace. The sun and wind kissed your cheeks and turned them brown; your strength increased. The purity of your soul was grateful to the Prophet, and hegranted you knowledge and understanding. But you were not destined to become a priest, my Hafiz. Allah has chosen you for a more worldly life, wherein you may yet render Him service by becoming a bulwark of the Faith!”
A smile softened the stern chin of the novitiate and lent his face a rare sweetness.
“I understand, O Mufti,” he answered; but there was a thrill in his voice he could not repress.
The priest clapped his hands and an attendant entered.
“Send to me Dirrag the messenger,” he commanded.
No word was spoken on the gallery until the son of Ugg appeared.
Dirrag was still white with the dust of his swift ride across the desert. He came in with a swinging stride, glanced with a momentary hesitation from one to the other of the two men, and then knelt humbly before Hafiz.
“My lord,” said he, “your father commands your presence in Mekran. We must ride fast if you are to find him still alive.”
“In an hour,” answered the priest, calmly, “Prince Ahmed will be in the saddle. I commend to your wisdom and loyalty, good Dirrag, the safety of the heir to the throne of Mekran.”
When Burah Khan picked Dirrag of the tribe of Ugg as his messenger to the monastery of Takkatu, he knew his man.
Dirrag was brother to the sirdar of his tribe, and the tribe of Ugg was Burah Khan’s tribe, prominent above all others for having furnished two great rulers to the nation: Keedar the Great and his warrior son the Lion of Mekran. Well might the tribe of Ugg be proud, and well might Dirrag be faithful to his own kin.
The messenger was thin and wiry; he was not a tall man, but neither was Burah Khan, for that matter. Dirrag wore a black, thick beard that covered nearly his entire face. His eyes, as they glinted through the thicket of whisker, were keen as a ferret’s. One of his ears had been sliced away by a cimeter; his left hand hadbut one finger and the thumb remaining; his body was seared with scars on almost every inch of its compact surface. Dirrag was no longer ornamental—if he had ever possessed that quality—but he was an exceedingly useful man in a skirmish and had fought for years beside Burah himself. They knew each other.
When Dirrag mounted his mare at the castle gates he did not hesitate as to his direction, but sped away toward the mountains. An ordinary messenger would have headed due east, so as to pass around the mountain range and reach by easy ascent the height of Takkatu. But the strange physician had told him Prince Ahmed must be at his father’s side in six days, and Dirrag had looked into the man’s eyes. He knew that much depended upon his promptness in fulfilling his mission, and so he rode, straight as the bird flies, toward Mount Takkatu.
And he rode swiftly, hour after hour, till shadows crept over the land and night fell. He dipped the mare’s nose into two streams between then and daybreak, but paused onlyduring those moments. At sunrise he dashed up to an enclosure, drew the bridle from his panting mare, threw it over the head of a snow-white stallion corralled near by, sprang astride the fresh animal and was off like the wind.
A Baluch came from a stone hut, watched the cloud of dust that marked Dirrag’s flight and then calmly proceeded to tend and groom the weary mare the messenger had discarded.
“Oh, ho!” he muttered, “old Burah has the death-sickness at last, and the young prince is sent for. May Allah rest my master’s black and scoundrelly soul!”
He had tended the relay for years, waiting for this hour.
Dirrag reached the monastery in the middle of the third day after leaving Mekran. He was obliged to curb his impatience for four tedious hours before the return journey could be begun. But the messenger was well ahead of his time, and provided Prince Ahmed proved a good rider would see Mekran again before the six days allotted him had sped.
There were good horses at the ancient monastery of Mehmet. No more famous stable existed in all Baluchistan. Dirrag glanced with pride at their mounts as he rode away beside his kinsman the prince. Also he noted with satisfaction the firm and graceful seat of his companion and his evident mastery of the splendid bay stallion he bestrode.
Therefore the warrior smiled grimly and tossed his head.
“Six days!” he muttered. “It is too many by one.”
A long, swift stride the slender bays struck, and they maintained it hour after hour without seeming to tire. Dirrag was no chatterer, and the son of the Lion of Mekran, whom the tribesman regarded admiringly from time to time from the corner of his eye, seemed liable to prove equally reticent.
The warrior had never seen his master’s son before, and had shared a common misgiving with the Baluchi concerning the monastery-bred prince. But his doubts were more than half relieved by his firstview of the athletic form and steady poise of his kinsman. If the priests had not spoiled him— But, there! time would show. At present it was enough that the heir could ride.
Another day arrived before Dirrag was called upon to answer a single question. In the cool hour just before the sun arose, as they slowly rode up an incline, resting the horses for the long canter down hill, the prince asked:
“In what condition did you leave Burah Khan?”
“Your father, my prince, was near his end,” he replied, slowly. “His illness has been long and tedious, and the Persian physician who arrived from Kelat gave him barely seven days to live. This is the fourth day.”
“And when shall we reach Mekran?”
“On the morning of the sixth day—with the blessing of Allah.”
The younger man pondered the matter long. Then he said:
“Who recommended the Persian? Were there no physicians in Mekran?”
“Burah beheaded his own physician three weeks ago. He has executed, altogether, five men of medicine since this illness came upon him. The others have fled or are in hiding. As for the Persian, I am told Agahr the Vizier would have prevented his coming; but Melka of our tribe, who rules the khan’s harem, rode fast to Kelat, and the Persian came.”
“Agahr. Is he not our cousin?”
“Your uncle, lord, thrice removed. He is own cousin to Kasam the Pretender.”
Another period of silence, finally broken by questions as calmly and indifferently put.
“This Kasam the Pretender. Is he popular in Mekran?”
“They do not know him, any more than they know yourself. He has lived in a far country since boyhood, and is said to be still there.”
“But he has friends—partisans?”
Dirrag hitched uneasily in his seat.
“There are some, even yet, who deny the right of a son of Ugg to rule. Old Keedar did not strike softly, and the sword of Burah was ever long and sharp. You will haveenemies, my master, when you are khan.”
“Open enemies?”
“And secret ones. The open enemies you need not fear.”
At noon they entered the Gedrusian Desert, the uplands being all behind them.
There is little danger in this tract of waste land to those familiar with it. Numerous pools and oases sustain the traveller of experience. Dirrag knew every inch of the desert, and as their present route was across but one corner of it he entered fearlessly.
Night had fallen and the moon and stars were out when they halted the weary horses beside a pool. Ahmed dismounted and had knelt beside the water to drink when Dirrag suddenly grasped his shoulder and threw him forcibly backward. He arose slowly, rearranged his burnous and cast an enquiring look at his companion.
“The pool is poisoned,” said Dirrag.
Bending over, he pointed to the bottom of the shallow water, where the moon shone on several slender twigs that were covered with a pale green bark.
“It is from the shushalla—the snake-tree,” he said, gruffly. “A drop of this water will bring instant death. This is very annoying. Our pools are never poisoned without a purpose, my master. Perhaps we are watched.”
“I saw a rider against the horizon, as we came up,” replied Ahmed.
He stretched his muscular arms, yawned with weariness and lay down upon the sand, instantly becoming motionless. It was a trick of relaxation he had learned at the Sunnite monastery.
Dirrag looked at him approvingly. The novitiate Hafiz had cast aside his yellow robes with his monastic name, and now wore the simple dress of a Baluch tribesman, without ornament or jewel of any sort. The fold of his turban, however, proclaimed him a member of the tribe of Ugg, and the cimeter at his side—the gift of the wily priest of Mehmet—was a weapon of rare quality, its hilt sparkling with clustered gems. Dirrag, when he first saw it, had made humble obeisance to the cimeter.
The former recluse also bore a shortspear, with the accompanying shield of hammered bronze, and these completed his equipment.
Dirrag, wondering vaguely if his young master knew how to handle his weapons, unsheathed his own blade and, squatting at the edge of the pool, impaled the green twigs, one after another, upon its point and drew them from the water. When all had been thus removed he buried the deadly branches deep in the desert sands, and then reclined beside his master. The horses sniffed eagerly at the pool, but would not drink until they were given permission.
Silence fell upon the group. When three hours had passed Dirrag arose, crept to the pool and dipped his finger in the water, tasting a drop warily. Then he leaned over and drank, somewhat sparingly, and laid himself down again, commending his soul to Allah.
In another hour he sprang up, alert and brisk, and touched Ahmed’s shoulder.
“You may drink, master,” said he. “The pool is cleansed.”
Five minutes later, men and horses alikerefreshed, they gallopped away through the moonlight.
The fifth day dawned—the fifth according to Dirrag’s calendar, which dated from the moment he had left Mekran. Ahmed had been in the saddle thirty-six hours, with brief periods of rest. Dirrag, man of iron though he was, began to show signs of fatigue. He was used to long riding, but now his eyelashes seemed lead and every stroke of his horse’s hoofs sounded in his ears like the beat of a drum.
Soon after the sun arose they discovered a group of horsemen far across the desert, who seemed to be riding in the same direction they were. The horsemen were mere specks upon the sands, at first, but as the hours passed they grew larger.
“Travellers to Mekran,” remarked Dirrag, calmly. “The sirdars have been assembled. Doubtless it is the party of some dignitary journeying to the death-bed of Burah Khan.”
“How far distant is Mekran?” asked Ahmed.
“We shall reach it, Allah willing, by anotherdaybreak,” replied the warrior. “It will be the morning of the sixth day. The Persian gave me full six days. I shall save twelve hours, and twelve hours to a dying man is a long time.”
There was an accent of pride in his voice. Agahr had said the journey would require seven days with fast riding. But Agahr was a townsman; how should he know how fast the men of Ugg can ride?
The group of horsemen drew nearer. At noon Dirrag could see them almost plainly enough to determine what tribe they belonged to—almost, but not quite. Shortly afterwards, however, they whirled and rode directly toward the two travellers, and then Dirrag straightened in his saddle, cast the sleep from his eyes and gave a low growl.
“They are of the Tribe of Raab—a wild and rebellious band that hates Burah and supports the cause of Kasam the Pretender.”
“Why are they here?” asked Ahmed.
“To prevent our reaching Mekran I suppose. They do not want the sirdars andyour father to publicly acknowledge you the successor to the throne.”
“Well?”
“It was for the same reason the pool was poisoned. Treachery first; then the sword. Can you fight, my prince?”
“I can try,” smiled Ahmed. “We are taught the arts of warfare in the monastery.”
“You surprise me. I thought the priests passed their time in the worship of Allah.”
“And in preparing to defend the Faith, good Dirrag. Yet I do not know how well I can wield a cimeter in actual combat. Naked steel differs from a wooden foil. And the men of Raab outnumber us.”
“There are a dozen of them, at least. But you and I are of the tribe of Ugg. If we cannot win the fight we may at least honor our kinsmen by taking three lives to our one.”
“It is worth the trial,” returned Ahmed, cheerfully, and he drew the cimeter from its leathern sheath and eyed the blade curiously.
“The spear first, my lord,” said Dirrag.“After that the sword play. These men of Raab are not skillful, but they are brave.” And he proceeded to instruct Ahmed in the conduct of the coming encounter.
The horsemen were now so near that their shouts could be plainly heard. They were racing on at full speed, waving their spears in the air as they rode.
“See!” exclaimed Ahmed, after a glance over his shoulder. “We are being surrounded.”
Dirrag looked and growled again; but there was a more cheerful note to his voice this time.
“A caravan!” he exclaimed. “They are yet far off, but they have dromedaries and are swiftly approaching. If we can escape the first attack of the assassins we may be rescued yet.”
There was no time for further words. The fierce tribesmen of Raab were quickly upon them, and by a concerted movement Ahmed and Dirrag whirled their horses in opposite directions, separating as they dashed away over the sands. This was intended to cause the band to divide, a partfollowing each fugitive. But, to Dirrag’s annoyance, only two came after him, yelling and shaking their spears, indeed, but seeming not over anxious to engage him in combat, so long as he did not rejoin Ahmed.
It was upon the young heir of Mekran that most of the Raabites hurled themselves, circling around him at full gallop and watching a chance to thrust a spear into his back.
Ahmed recognized his peril. He cast his spear at one assailant, cleft another through turban and skull with his keen cimeter, and then, with a word to the gallant bay of Mehmet, he raised the horse high in the air and hurled it like a catapult at the foeman who chanced to be before him.
Even at the moment of impact the glittering blade whistled again through the air and the man of Raab sprawled with his horse in the desert sands, while Ahmed’s steed broke through the circle of his foes and bounded away to rejoin Dirrag, who was so lost in admiration of his young master’s prowess that he hardly looked to defend himself from his own assailants.
“Shall we fly?” asked Ahmed.
“It is useless,” panted Dirrag, ranging his horse beside that of his master, so that it faced the opposite direction. “They can outrun us easily, for our steeds are weary. But a few more strokes like those, my prince, and the dogs will themselves take to their heels.”
There was no indication of this at present, however. Again the enemy with fierce determination surrounded the two, and while each guarded the other’s back they sat side by side and gave stroke for stroke with calm precision.
“Hold!” cried an eager voice, sounding above the melee.
The men of Raab, as if fearful of being robbed of their prey, made a sudden furious dash. At the same time a pistol shot rang out and the leader tumbled from his saddle. The Raabites were demoralized, and fell back. They had no fire-arms.
“Forbear, I command you!” said the same imperative voice. “I am Prince Kasam.”
Yells of surprise and disappointment broke from the tribesmen. With a suddenimpulse they wheeled and galloped swiftly over the desert, while the rescued men wearied and breathless, lowered their swords to gaze around them in surprise.
The caravan had come upon them unawares. Twenty stout Afghans rode back of the young prince who had interrupted the conflict, and behind these stood dromedaries upon whose ample backs were perched ladies in European dress and gentlemen composedly smoking cheroots.
“Well done, Kasam,” cried Colonel Moore, approvingly, and the ladies waved their handkerchiefs.
Dirrag, who had dismounted to pull a spear-head from his horse’s flank, scowled and shrank back so that the bay’s body partly hid him. Ahmed, at the sound of English words, drew the folds of his burnous close about his face, so that only the grey eyes were left revealed; but he sat his horse quietly and gave the native salute.
“We thank Prince Kasam for our rescue,” he said in the native tongue.
Kasam flushed and laughed good-naturedly.
“Keep my secret, friend,” he returned. “I was, indeed, foolish to reveal my station to that rabble yonder. But they are men of Raab, from which tribe I am myself descended, and in the emergency it seemed the only way to compel their obedience.”
The other bowed coldly and turned away to watch the Afghans rifling the bodies of the fallen.
“Bury those fellows in the sand,” ordered Kasam, shivering as he looked at the stark forms. “Were they not of my tribe they should feed the jackals for so cowardly an attack. What was your quarrel, friend?” turning again to Ahmed.
The latter made no reply, waving a hand toward Dirrag. Whereat the warrior, despite his repugnance, forced himself to come forward and answer for his silent chief.
“We are of the tribe of Ugg,” said he, briefly.
Kasam laughed.
“That is the usurper’s tribe,” said he; “the tribe of old Burah, who is either dyingor dead at this moment. No wonder my kinsmen assailed you!”
Some of the ladies and gentlemen, who had understood nothing of this conversation, now rode forward with eager questions in English concerning the affray and those who had been slain. Bessie screamed at sight of the mound of sand that was being rapidly heaped over the victims, and Aunt Lucy declared she was about to faint and would fall off the camel. Dr. Warner, in well chosen words, denounced a country where such murderous assaults were possible, and the Colonel regretted they had not arrived in time to see more of the fight. Even Allison Moore displayed considerable interest in the incident, and condemned Kasam for interrupting what might have been “a very pretty scrap.”
Meantime Ahmed, with muffled face, sat his horse as if turned to stone, and Dirrag scowled more and more at the gabble of the foreigners.
“Friend,” said Kasam, mistaking the scarred warrior for the leader of the two, “we are riding to Mekran. If you travelour way you have permission to attach yourselves to my caravan. It will doubtless insure your safety.”
To what extent Dirrag might have resented this implication that they were unable to protect themselves is uncertain, for an ungracious reply on his part to the kindly-meant invitation was interrupted by a recollection of the importance of his mission and the dangers that now menaced his young companion.
“Prince Kasam has our thanks,” he muttered. “We journey to Mekran.”
As the caravan started anew Janet Moore, who had remained quietly in the background, among the baggage-men and camel-drivers, rode slowly forward and joined the group of Americans. Whereupon Bessie laughingly reproached her for her timidity, and began chattering an unintelligible explanation of what had happened.
The men of Ugg silently joined the caravan. Neither they nor their horses seemed much the worse for the conflict, although Dirrag’s animal had a gaping wound in the thigh that would soon become stiff and sore,and the warrior had himself added a scratch across the forehead to his collection of wounds.
“Your countrymen seem to regard life very lightly, Prince,” said the Colonel, as they rode together near the front.
“Among themselves they have fought for centuries,” answered Kasam. “Yet I am told that of late years, under Keedar and Burah Khan, these minor frays have been forbidden and the combatants, if caught, severely punished. But old Burah is as good as dead, now, and the squabbles of the tribesmen are likely to break out afresh until I have time to reorganize the government and pacify the country.”
“Will you, too, be known as ‘a fighting khan,’ such as the ‘Lion of Mekran?’”asked Bessie, looking upon the young man with admiring eyes.
“I hope not, indeed,” he replied, laughing. “I shall try to instil European ideas into the heads of my stupid countrymen, and teach them the superiority of the Arts of Peace.”
None noticed that Ahmed’s horse hadgradually forged ahead until he rode just behind the party of Americans.
“Isn’t it queer,” remarked Miss Warner, musingly, “that the future potentate of this big country is personally conducting us to his capital? It was really nice of you, Prince, to return with our passports. For a time we thought you had forsaken us, and Allison was bent on our retracing our steps and quitting the country.”
Kasam glanced into Janet’s grave face.
“You need not fear my deserting you,” he said earnestly. “Indeed, had I remained in Mekran during these days of waiting for the Khan’s death I should have gone wild with suspense, for there is nothing that can be done until Burah breathes his last breath. His physician, a stubborn Persian, promised him life for seven days.”
“Suppose the Persian fails, and you are absent?” suggested the Colonel.
“If the Persian fails, so much the better,” returned Kasam; “for then the monk-taught weakling son of Burah will not be acknowledged his successor, and the title of Khan reverts to me.”
“But if the son arrives before his father’s death?”
It was the doctor who asked this question.
“Then we revolt—I believe that is the plan—and drive every member of the tribe of Ugg from Mekran. But my cousin Ahmed cannot arrive before the seventh day, which is the day after tomorrow, and, according to my uncle Agahr, who is clever at intrigue, it will not be possible for Burah’s son to arrive at all.”
“Why not?” demanded the Colonel.
“Assassination, I suppose,” suggested the doctor.
Kasam shrugged his shoulders.
“I do not ask my Uncle Agahr to explain these things. Ahmed is not to be assassinated, however; he promised me that. Otherwise, it matters little what prevents him from reaching his father’s death-bed.”
“What a splendid man that barbarian is!” whispered Bessie to Janet. The latter turned slowly in her seat and gave a start of surprise, for Ahmed rode just behind her. The look in the calm grey eyes seemed to thrill the girl strangely, for she swayed inher saddle and might have fallen had not the “barbarian” thrust out a strong arm and steadied her.
“What are you doing here?” cried Kasam, angrily, in the native Baluch. “Back to the rear, my man, where you belong!”
Ahmed bowed gravely and retreated to where Dirrag rode. Nor did he again venture near the front.
“How cross you were to that handsome fellow,” said Bessie, pouting her pretty lips.
“Why, as for that, Miss Bessie,” returned the Prince, “I happened to remember that I was indulging rather freely in political gossip; and while it is impossible that he should understand English, your handsome fellow is of the tribe of Ugg—our hereditary foes.”
“If all the tribe of Ugg are like these two samples,” remarked the doctor, “it may not be so easy to thrust them from your capital.”
“They are not, I suppose. I do not remember to have seen so fine a specimen of manhood as the tall one among the nativesbefore. What a pity that I know so little of my own country,” continued the young man regretfully. “Did you notice how reverent my Afghans are toward that little, battle-scarred warrior we rescued? He may be some man of note—some mighty hero—for all I know. But doubtless he is a mere quarrelsome tribesman, beneath my notice. When I am khan I shall make it a point to study my people thoroughly, that I may better understand how to manage them.”
At sundown they reached the edge of the desert and came to the fertile plains of Melin. Here camp was made and, wearied with the day’s journey, the travellers made their repast and retired early to rest.
“Tomorrow night we shall sleep in Mekran,” said Kasam. “I am sorry I cannot invite you directly to the palace; but until old Burah dies I am as much a stranger in my own country as any of you. However, my Uncle Agahr will see that you are provided with comfortable quarters.”
“Are there no inns in Mekran?” asked Allison.
“Inns are plentiful, but afford only the most primitive accommodations. We must house you in the dwelling of one of our adherents. There are many of these, I assure you, of rank and wealth. And now, I bid you good-night, ladies. May Allah guard your rest.”
At the door of their tent the doctor and Colonel Moore smoked a cigar before retiring.
“I am sorry,” said the latter, in a low voice, “that in my ignorance of Baluchistan I permitted the girls and Aunt Lucy to accompany us.”
“They’ve stood the trip pretty well, so far,” replied the doctor, carelessly.
“Yes; but consider what a mess the country is in, politically. There’s liable to be open warfare—perhaps a massacre—in a day or two, according to Kasam. And the girls may—”
“Oh, we’ll keep the girls out of danger,” declared the doctor. “I’ve no doubt they are as safe here as at home. I will acknowledge the country is more wild and uncivilized than I had dreamed, but we’re ona matter of business, Colonel, and I flatter myself we have as good as accomplished our purpose already. Kasam is sure to grant us right of way for our railroad—when he is khan.”
The Colonel smoked a while in silence.
“This young man,” he remarked, at length, “seems to have little doubt of the success of his cause. Yet from all I have picked up since we drew near to Baluchistan, that terrible Burah Khan who is dying is absolute master of the situation. And his son-“
“His son is a priest-ridden devotee of Mahomet, who knows better how to pray than to rule a turbulent nation. Don’t worry about Kasam, my dear Colonel. He’s sure to win out. And if he doesn’t—”
The doctor smiled cynically.
“What then?”
“Why, if he doesn’t,” retorted the doctor, tossing away his cigar and rising to retire, “the priest-bred weakling—is his name Ahmed?—will be just the sort of ruler the Metropolitan Construction Company loves to deal with. However the cat jumps weare sure to have the railway; so let’s go to bed.”
Just before daybreak the leader of the Afghans came to Kasam’s tent and awoke him.
“The men of Ugg are gone,” said he.
“Never mind,” returned the Prince, sitting up to yawn. “When did they go?”
“Early last evening; soon after we made camp. They stole away unobserved.”
“It doesn’t matter in the least,” said Kasam.
“Except that they have taken your Excellency’s black stallion, and left in its place the wounded bay, which is too stiff to travel.”
“Why, that was base ingratitude,” said the young man, with unconcern. “I must punish those fellows, if ever I see them again. But it is only a day’s journey to Mekran. I’ll ride a dromedary, good captain; and, by the way, let us make an early start.”
But at the same moment that Prince Kasam’s camp was awakening to activity Ahmed and Dirrag, after a night’s hardgallop, rode through the marble gates of Mekran.
It was the morning of the sixth day.
“And now,” the vizier had said to his daughter on the evening of the fourth day, “let us rest content. The sirdar of the tribe of Raab—our faithful ally Zarig—has sent a force to patrol the desert trails over which Dirrag must pass with Ahmed on his return to Mekran. Zarig has sworn that the son of Burah shall never reach here by the seventh day.”
“That is good,” answered Maie, thoughtfully. “But it is not enough.”
Agahr threw out his palms with an impulsive gesture.
“What would you have?” he asked, impatiently. “I have suborned every servant in the palace; I have followed every plan you have suggested; intrigue and cunning each moment battle for our great object.”
“Yet the Persian sits beside Burah Khan and baffles our every plot,” replied the girl. “I will go to him myself, my father.”
“You! Impossible.”
“No one shall ever know but yourself, and you will guard my secret. But see the Persian I must. Despite his pretended loyalty he is a mere man—and surely there is a way to influence any man that lives.”
An hour later Agahr secretly introduced Maie into the palace, and while he himself guarded the passage leading to the chamber of Burah the girl boldly pushed aside the draperies at the entrance and confronted the physician.
The Persian was standing beside the couch as she entered, and after a glance at his visitor he quietly drew a silken coverlet over the still form and advanced to where the girl stood awaiting him.
“I am the daughter of the vizier,” she said, softly.
“You are welcome,” declared the Persian; but he passed one hand over his forehead as he spoke, and his voice sounded weary and discouraged.
Maie threw back her veil and smiled, while the physician, leaning upon the low table that bore the shaded lamp, gazed wonderingly at the beautiful face revealed.
“May I rest myself?” she asked, in her sweet voice, and without awaiting permission she passed between the table and Burah’s couch and sank gracefully upon a low divan.
The Persian hesitated an instant, and cast an uneasy glance at his patient. Then he seated himself beside the table and bowed.
“It is the same old tale, I suppose?” he said, enquiringly. “You do not wish the Khan to live to acknowledge his son?”
The girl gave a little laugh.
“It is very pleasant to find you both frank and comprehensive,” she returned, “for now many useless words may be spared. Tell me, Persian, why you insist upon interfering with our plans to depose the sons of Ugg and restore the throne to the former rulers of Baluchistan? What is it to you, a stranger, whether Burah Khan dies tonight—this very moment—or lives to acknowledge his son two days hence?”
“Only this,” he answered quietly. “I have given my word.”
“Do you fear for your reputation as a skillful physician? Elai! You have already accomplished wonders enough to make you famous. Had you not arrived in Mekran, Burah Khan long since would have passed away.”
“It was a draught of my own invention,” said the man, musingly. “I am anxious to test its powers. If it will hold Death at bay for seven days I shall have solved an important problem in medical science.”
“But why is it necessary to test your draught on the Khan of Baluchistan? There may be thousands of similar cases wherein the matter of life and death is unimportant. Perhaps, in spite of your great fame, you lack money. See!”
With a quick gesture she arose and approached the table, emptying upon its spread the contents of a chamois bag. Before the physician’s eyes sparkled a score of exquisite gems—diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds of enormous value.
He gave them but a glance and lookedinto the girl’s eyes. They sparkled as brilliantly as the jewels, but were equally mystifying. What she read in his own eyes is uncertain, but a moment later she sank at his feet and clasped his knees in her rounded arms.
“For the cause of science,” she murmured, looking up into his face with a ravishing smile, “I will gladly promise the great physician ten gems, equally as flawless and pure, for every one now before him! It is a rare treasure, my Persian. All I ask in return is permission to attend the Khan until morning.”
His brow flushed, but he did not withdraw his gaze from her dark eyes.
“Ah, do not refuse me,” she pleaded, resting her head against him so that the fragrance of her hair saluted his nostrils like an enchanting perfume. “It is so little for you to do, when you may ask so much in return!” Her bosom heaved with emotion and pressed against his knee. “You shall have a palace of your own, my friend, here in Mekran, where you may woo Science at your will and command a thousand slavesto do your bidding. Are we not playing for a throne? And who shall have greater power than the man that enables the new khan to sit therein and rule a kingdom? I am the daughter of the vizier, my Persian, and hereafter no physician but you shall attend me.”
She nestled closer, with a little sigh of content that seemed to indicate the battle was won to their mutual satisfaction, and for a moment both maintained the pose, silent and motionless.
Suddenly the physician stood up, freeing himself from the girl’s embrace. With an abrupt motion he swept the glittering gems into the little bag and tossed it at the girl’s feet. Then, with folded arms, he stood looking down at where she still crouched by the empty chair, her lovely features convulsed with a passion terrible to witness.
But the mood quickly passed. Her face cleared. She raised her hand and rearranged the disordered masses of her hair, laughing the while in low tones and lifting her eyes unabashed to the man who had repulsed her.
The Persian shuddered.
Slowly rising to her feet she made him a mocking bow and said, jestingly:
“The chisel must indeed be dull that can carve no emblem on the marble. No man, believe me, is incorruptible; I have failed merely because I overestimated my own powers. Well, I will go.”
She looked around for her cloak. It lay over the divan, and she passed the Persian as if to get it. But in the act of picking it up she paused, straightened, and in two bounds stood beside the couch of the unconscious khan. A dagger flashed, and once—twice—thrice she plunged it deep into the bosom of the form hidden by the silken coverlet. Then she turned with a laugh of triumph toward the physician, the dagger still clasped in her jewelled fingers.
The Persian smiled.
Without a word he walked to the couch, and as she shrank aside he seized the coverlet and thrust it back, revealing nothing more than a mass of bolsters and cushions cleverly placed to outline the form of a man.
The girl, rigid and staring, turned her eyes from the couch to the physician.
“Where is he?” she whispered.
He took her wrist, fearless of the dagger she still held, and led her to an alcove. Throwing back the curtains he allowed her to gaze upon the still form of Burah Khan, lying peacefully beside a window through which the moon’s rays flooded the small apartment with mellow light.
Maie made no attempt to escape the grasp upon her wrist. She permitted the man to lead her back to the larger room, where he wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and placed the bag of jewels in her hand.
A moment later she rejoined the vizier in the passage.
“Well?” he enquired, anxiously.
“We must pin our faith to the men of Raab,” she replied, between her set teeth. “The Persian is not human—he is a fiend!”
Dirrag led his master straight to the royal palace, reaching it just as the first rays of the sun fell upon the city. As he arrived unexpectedly, there was none to receive him except a few sleepy servants and the sirdars of the tribes of Mem and Agot, who shared the watch over the chamber of the khan. These, being loyal to the reigning house, were overjoyed at the speedy and safe return of the messenger, and cast curious glances at his tall companion.
But Dirrag knew where his duty lay and did not linger an instant. He pressed on to the khan’s own chamber, and entered without announcement, followed closely by Ahmed.
The Persian stood by an open window, engaged in rolling a cigarette. He paused, motionless, as he saw Dirrag. His eyelighted with satisfaction, and he drew a sigh of relief.
“Back already!” he said, pleasantly.
“As you see,” answered Dirrag, with pride. “It is the morning of the sixth day, and I have saved twelve hours from my allotted time. And here is Prince Ahmed, the son of Burah Khan, and heir to the Lion of Mekran—safe and sound, although nearly as weary as I am myself.”
A long speech for Dirrag, but warranted by the marvelous ride he had so successfully accomplished.
The Persian seemed not to hear it. He was staring fixedly at the tall form of the Prince.
“You!” he gasped, as if a great surprise overwhelmed him.
Ahmed, with wide eyes reading the other through and through, and seemingly filled with equal astonishment, answered steadily and briefly:
“I am the man.”
“I have searched for you throughout the East,” said the Physician, recovering in a degree his composure. “And now—”
“Now you have found me,” returned Ahmed, smiling upon the other.
The two men clasped hands, and Dirrag, uneasily regarding the amazing thing, shifted his booted feet back and forth with a child’s nervousness.
“You the son of Burah Khan!” exclaimed one.
“You the famed physician of Persia!” said the other.
But Dirrag did not understand. They spoke a queer language unknown to him.
Presently, however, the physician noted his distress and drew away from the Prince, saying in the Baluch tongue:
“My lord the Prince Ahmed is welcome. It is fortunate for us all that he has arrived safely.”
“And in time, I hope?” enquired Ahmed, eagerly. “How is my—how is Burah Khan’s health?”
The Persian gave a little laugh, sat down, and proceeded to light his cigarette.
“Burah Khan is dead,” said he.
“Dead!”
The physician nodded, blowing a cloudof smoke from his nostrils. Dirrag gave a groan and sank limply into a chair. Ahmed, with a swift glance into the Persian’s face, merely frowned and stood at attention, as if waiting to hear more.
“It is doubtless a great misfortune,” continued the physician, speaking in a leisurely tone, “and I have been in a desperate quandary, having no one in all the throng surrounding the late khan in whom I dared confide. The vizier is a traitor, and at the head of a formidable conspiracy. The sirdars, with one exception, are faithful; but they are warriors, and not fitted to counsel in so delicate a matter as this. So I have watched beside the khan’s dead body for two days and two nights, and none save myself knew he had ceased to breathe.”
“But, elai! did you not promise—” began Dirrag, in a boisterous tone.
“I did,” interrupted the other, coolly. “I promised Burah Khan should live seven days—even while I saw the death-damp upon his brow. For I read the vizier clearly, and suspected there was a conspiracy to supplant the dying man’s son. It matterednothing to me except that it gave me pleasure to try to defeat the plot old Burah was himself unable to foil. Moreover, I had faith in a peculiar powder that has been known to hold life within a body for many days. It seemed the game was worth the candle, did it not? And the old khan, to my great satisfaction, did manage to live for four days of the six required by Dirrag to make the journey to Takkatu and back. Then he died without awakening.”
“It is terrible,” said Dirrag, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Not so,” returned the physician, with an odd smile. “A man has ample time to think when he sits by a dead body. We three are the sole owners of the secret. Well? Shall we ring down the curtain, or go on with the play?”
“The play!” repeated Dirrag, vacantly.
“It is all a play, my friend,” said the Persian, reassuringly, “and we, living or dead, are expected to assume our characters to the end. So, if an honest man is sometimes called upon to enact the part of a villain, it is not greatly to his discredit.”
Ahmed stepped close to the physician and his grey eyes gazed full into the other’s brown ones.
“If I become khan,” said he, “it will be due to your friendly offices.”
“I acknowledge it,” the physician replied.
“If I become khan,” persisted Ahmed, in the same level tone, “no man on earth shall dictate my acts or cripple my power.”
The Persian smiled, indulgently.
“I will acknowledge that, also,” said he.
“Then,” continued the Prince, throwing himself upon a chair, “let the play go on!”
..........
Great was the excitement in Mekran when the news flew from palace to town that Dirrag had returned, bringing with him the son of the dying khan. Maie heard it from the mouth of a slave, and after one reproachful glance at her father sat silent and still as a graven image, while the vizier, with pallid face and a great fear at his heart, hastened away to the palace.
The men of Mem and Agot guarded the gateway and jeered openly at Agahr ashe hurried through. Within the courtyard were assembled the sirdars and chiefs of all the fighting tribes of Baluchi, waiting in grim silence for the drama about to be enacted. They saluted the vizier.
Agahr started to ascend the stairway leading to the gallery that gave entrance to the khan’s chamber; but a row of hard-featured men of Ugg forced him back. No one could be admitted until the Persian physician gave the order. He was preparing his patient for the ceremony.