erect, with folded arms, bending a searching yet kindly gaze upon the face upturned to his.

“Tell me!” pleaded the Khan, feebly.

The Persian gave a quick glance around. Then he answered:

“They listen.”

“Let them hear,” said the Khan, raising himself with an effort upon his elbow. “They--are all--friends.”

A queer look came over the stranger’s face. But he said, in a calm voice:

“The sickness is fatal. You will die.”

For a moment the Lion of Mekran returned the other’s gaze steadily. Then he lay back upon his pillows and sighed.

Agahr, who eyed his master as if fascinated, heaved an echoing sigh, and the group of officials exchanged looks of consternation.

“When?” asked the Khan, his voice now strong and clear, his eyes on the impassive face before him.

“A day--an hour,” replied the Persian, slowly. “It is Death’s secret.”

For a few moments the silence was unbroken save for the splash of the fountain as its perfumed spray fell into the marble basin. Then the Khan again aroused himself.

“Can you hold Death at bay--for a time?” he asked.

“How long?”

“Speak, Agahr!” turning to his vizier. “How long to get my son here--to assemble the Sirdars of the Nine Tribes?”

Agahr was trembling visibly. He clasped and unclasped his thin hands nervously and glanced first at his master and then at the physician.

“Speak!” said the latter, sternly.

“To the monastery of Takkatu is three days’ journey--three days, at least,” he said, hesitatingly. “And for Prince Ahmed to return will require three more. Seven days--a week--with fast riding.”

“Then,” said the Khan, calmly, “they must ride fast.” He turned to the Persian. “Can you fight Death so long?”

The Persian nodded. The pluck 

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