“Remember, great Olema, we did bring thee the Myzab and Kaukab el Durri, and the holy Black Stone!”

“I remember, White Sheik, and will reward thee, but not with gold!” The old man’s face was stern, deep-lined, hard; his eyes had assumed a dangerous glitter.  “Thou hast a good tongue, but though it speak from now till the angel Al Sijil roll up all the scrolls of life, it shall not avail.

“Ask some other thing; and remember, if thou dost try by any magic to remove even a sand-grain of this gold, the salt will be no longer between thee and me.  This must be added to the two things I have already told thee of, that would take away the salt!”

Narrowly the Master eyed him, then nodded.  Huge though this rebuff had been, and great as the loss must be, the Master realized the utter impossibility of coming to any terms with Bara Miyan on a gold basis.  All the fanaticism of these people would resist this, to the death.  Even to insist further might precipitate a massacre.  Therefore, like the philosopher he was, he turned to other possibilities, considering what was best to be done.

The Olema spoke again, pausing now and then as he puffed reflectively at his water-pipe.  Said he: 

“I will tell thee a great secret, O Frank.  In this city lie the lost books of the Arwam (Greek) wise men and poets.  When the Alexandrian library was burned by Amrou, at Omar’s order, the four thousand baths of the city were heated for six months by ancient scrolls.  I have heard that ye Feringi have greatly mourned the loss of the Arwam learning and poetry.  Not all this treasure was lost, White Sheik!”

The Master started, peered at Bara Miyan and forgot to chew his soothing khat leaves.

“And then—?” asked he.

“Some twenty thousand of the most precious parchments were privately carried by our Sufis to Medina, and thence, after many years, to Jannati Shahr.  Here they still lie, in perfect form, clearly to be read.  This is a treasure that would set the world of the Feringi ablaze and make thee as a god among thy people.  Ask this gift, O Frank, and it shall be granted thee!  For the mere asking, this treasure shall be thine!”

The Master shook his head.  Deeply as he understood the incalculable value of the lost books of antiquity, he well knew that to offer his Legion such a booty would be all in vain.  Men who have suffered and bled, risked all, seen their comrades die, and even now stand in the shadow of death—­hoping some vast, tangible loot—­are not proper material for discussion of literary values.

“Yafta Allah!” the Master exclaimed, with emphasis equal to the Olema’s.  “No, Bara Miyan, this cannot be.”

“Our dancing and singing maidens are like a flame of Paradise.  Their enchantments make the heart of man glad with perpetual springtime.  Choose, O Frank, two handmaids for thyself and for each of thy men, and let them be yours to go with you to your own country and to be your chattels and your sweet delights!”