‘I am a Hakim,’ replied the dignified Armenian. ‘Although an infidel, God has granted me skill to cure true believers. Worthy Ali, believe me, the boy may yet live.’     

       ‘Hakim, you shall count your own dirhems if he breathe in my divan in Bagdad,’ answered Ali; ‘I have taken a fancy to the boy. God has sent him to me. He shall carry my slippers.’     

       ‘Give me a camel, and I will save his life.’     

       ‘We have none,’ said the servant.     

       ‘Walk, Abdallah,’ said the master.     

       ‘Is a true believer to walk to save the life of a Kourd? Master slipper-bearer shall answer for this, if there be any sweetness in the bastinado,’ murmured Abdallah.     

       The Armenian bled Alroy; the blood flowed slowly but surely. The Prince of the Captivity opened his eyes.     

       ‘There is but one God,’ exclaimed Ali.     

       ‘The evil eye fall on him!’ muttered Abdallah.     

       The Armenian took a cordial from his vest, and poured it down his patient’s throat. The blood flowed more freely.     

       ‘He will live, worthy merchant,’ said the physician.     

       ‘And Mahomed is his Prophet,’ continued Ali.     

       ‘By the stone of Mecca, I believe it is a Jew,’ shouted Abdallah.     

       ‘The dog!’ exclaimed Ali.     

       ‘Pah!’ said a negro slave, drawing back with disgust.     

       ‘He will die,’ said the Christian physician, not even binding up the vein.     

       ‘And be damned,’ said Abdallah, again jumping on his camel.     

       The party rode on, the caravan proceeded. A Kourdish horseman galloped forward. He curbed his steed as he passed Alroy bleeding to death.     

       ‘What accursed slave has wounded one of my clan?’     

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