The chief finished his repast, and then with his lance turned over the image of the pearl beyond all price.  He looked at it, then passed it to those around him.  The savage warriors stared at the lovely portrait, and admired it not—­yet did they long for war.  “Tell me, O chiefs,” said the Great Khan, “is that baby-face you look at worth contending for?”

And, with one voice, the chiefs replied that she was worthy to share the nuptial couch of the Great Khan.

“Be it so,” replied he, “I am no judge of beauty.  Let the encampment be broken up—­this evening we move southwards.”  And the Tartar chief entered the northern provinces of the celestial empire, with his hundred thousand warriors, destroying all with fire and sword, proving his sincere wish to unite himself to the Chinese nation by the indiscriminate slaughter of man, woman, and child; and his ardent love for the peerless Chaoukeun, by making a nuptial torch of every town and village.

Ti-tum, tilly-lilly, ti-tum, ti.

But we must return to the celestial court, and astonish the world with the wonderful events which there took place.  The astrologers and wise men had consulted the heavens, and had ascertained that on the thirty-third minute after the thirteenth hour, the marriage procession must set out, or the consummation would not be prosperous.  Who can describe the pomp and glory of the spectacle, or give an adequate idea of its splendour?  Alas! it would not be possible, even if it were attempted by ten thousand poets, each with ten thousand tongues of silver, singing for ten thousand years.  Such, however, was the order of the procession.

First walked ten thousand officers of justice, with long bamboos, striking right and left to clear the way, to the cadence of soft music, blending with the plaintive cries of those who limped away and rubbed their shins.

Then marching, ten abreast, one hundred thousand lanthorns to assist the sun, partially eclipsed by the splendour of the procession.

Next appeared, slowly keeping time to a dead march, five thousand decapitated criminals, each carrying his own head by its long tail of hair.

* * * * *

“Staffir Allah!  What is that but a lie?” exclaimed the pacha.  “Did you hear what the dog has dared to breathe into our ears, Mustapha?”

“Mighty pacha,” replied the Chinaman, with humility, “if your wisdom pronounces it to be a lie—­a lie it most certainly must be; still it is not the lie of your slave, who but repeats the story as handed down by the immortal eastern poet.”

“Nevertheless, there appears to be a trifling mistake,” observed Mustapha.  “Is the procession to proceed, O pacha?”

“Yes, yes; but by the Prophet, let the dog tremble if again he presumes to laugh at our beards.”

* * * * *

After the decapitated criminals, which your highness objects to, came in procession those criminals with their heads on, who were to suffer for their offences on this day of universal happiness.