that you have been disagreeable, perhaps I shall punish you in that way. It may be well for you to remember that we are no longer in Europe.” The young man made no reply, but Kasam remembered the vengeful look that flashed from his eyes. Heretofore the prince had worn the European frock coat; now he assumed the white burnous of his countrymen. When he came to bid adieu to his employers before starting for Mekran, Bessie declared that their guide looked more handsome and distinguished than ever--“just like that famous picture of the Son of the Desert, you know.” Kasam was about to mount his horse--a splendid Arabian he had purchased in the village--when a tall Baluch who was riding by cast a shrewd glance into the young man’s face, sharply reined in his stallion, and placed a thumb against his forehead, bowing low. Kasam’s brown face went ashen grey. He gazed steadily into the stranger’s eyes. “You are bound for Mekran, my prince?” asked the tall Baluch, in the native tongue. “I ride at once.” “Make all haste possible. Burah Khan is dying.” “Dying? Blessed Allah!” cried Kasam, striking his forehead in despair. “Burah Khan dying, and our plans still incomplete! I have waited too long.” “Perhaps not,” retorted the other, significantly. “It is a lingering disease, and you may yet get to Mekran in time.” “In time? In time for what?” asked Kasam. “To strike!” Kasam stared at him. The tall Baluch smiled and shook the rein over his horse’s ears. “I am of the tribe of Raab, my prince. May Allah guide you to success.” Kasam did not reply. His head rested against the arched neck of his horse, and his form shook with a slight nervous tremor. But next moment he stood erect. The dazed look inspired by the bitter news he had heard was giving way to his old eager, cheery expression. “All is not lost!” he said, speaking aloud. “Fate knocks, and I will throw open the door. Allah grant that Burah Khan lives until I reach Mekran!” He sprang to the saddle, put spurs to his steed and dashed away at full
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