“Stop, stop, Abdul,” I said, “who taught you all that?”

Abdul looked cautiously around.

“They did,” he said in a whisper.  “There’s a lot more of it.  Would you like me to recite some more?  Or, no, no, what’s the good?  I’ve no heart for reciting any longer.”  And at this Abdul fell to weeping again.

“But, Abdul,” I said, “I don’t understand.  Why are you so distressed just now?  All this has been going on for over two years.  Why are you so worried just now?”

“Oh,” exclaimed the little Sultan in surprise, “you haven’t heard!  I see—­you’ve only just arrived.  Why, to-day is the last day.  After to-day it is all over.”

“Last day for what?” I asked.

“For intervention.  For the intervention of the United States.  The only thing that can save us.  It was to have come to-day, by the end of this full moon—­our astrologers had predicted it—­Smith Pasha, Minister under Heaven of the United States, had promised, if it came, to send it to us at the earliest moment.  How do they send it, do you know, in a box, or in paper?”

“Stop,” I said as my ear caught the sound of footsteps.  “There’s some one coming now.”

The sound of slippered feet was distinctly heard on the stones in the outer corridor.

Abdul listened intently a moment.

“I know his slippers,” he said.

“Who is it?”

“It is my chief secretary, Toomuch Koffi.  Yes, here he comes.”

As the Sultan spoke, the doors swung open and there entered an aged Turk, in a flowing gown and coloured turban, with a melancholy yellow face, and a long white beard that swept to his girdle.

“Who do you say he is?” I whispered to Abdul.

“My chief secretary,” he whispered back.  “Toomuch Koffi.”

“He looks like it,” I murmured.

Meantime, Toomuch Koffi had advanced across the broad flagstones of the hall where we were sitting.  With hands lifted he salaamed four times—­east, west, north, and south.

“What does that mean?” I whispered.

“It means,” said the Sultan, with visible agitation, “that he has a communication of the greatest importance and urgency, which will not brook a moment’s delay.”

“Well, then, why doesn’t he get a move on?” I whispered.

“Hush,” said Abdul.

Toomuch Koffi now straightened himself from his last salaam and spoke.

“Allah is great!” he said.

“And Mohammed is his prophet,” rejoined the Sultan.

“Allah protect you!  And make your face shine,” said Toomuch.

“Allah lengthen your beard,” said the Sultan, and he added aside to me in English, which Toomuch Koffi evidently did not understand, “I’m all eagerness to know what it is—­it’s something big, for sure.”  The little man was quite quivering with excitement as he spoke.  “Do you know what I think it is?  I think it must be the American Intervention.  The United States is going to intervene.  Eh?  What?  Don’t you think so?”