But the false Frank’s furtive whisper at the Sultan’s ear was heard. 
  (When the Frank may foil the Saxon won’t he do so?  Like a bird!)
  And the treacherous Moorish Monarch, to his people’s interest blind,
  Sold the sham he dubbed his honour, changed the thing he deemed
          his mind.

  “Christian Knight,” began the Monarch ("knight” was diplomat for
          “dog"),
  “There is something in your Treaty, that I relish—­like roast hog. 
  Know Morocco is no home for Factories and Colossal Stores;
  And the omnipresent Bagman is a bugbear to my Moors!

  “All my Cadis, all my ladies, wish at—­Hades Western Trade. 
  You must make large alterations in the Treaty we’ve half made;
  Shape it not in Christian interests, Christian Knight, but in
          MAHOUND’s,
  And—­incline thine ear!—­I’ll give thee, Christian, Thirty
          Thousand Pounds!!!”

  Enter black slave bearing Treasure!  Ranged bags of glittering gold! 
  Then upspake brave EUAN-SMITHEZ.  “Hold, base Sultan; minion, hold! 
  Dost thou think to bribe and buy a Christian Knight?  A Paynim plan! 
  If I take it, thou mayst sell me to a Moorish dog’s-meat man!”

  Then his steed obeyed his master, and he whinnied loud and free,
  Turned his back upon the tempter, caracoled with coltish glee;
  Struck out with his heels behind him, smote that slave upon the
          nose,
  Kicked the bags until the bullion in a Danae shower arose.

  Never DON FERNANDO’s charger, Bavieca, gave such spring,
  In the sawdust-sprinkled circus of AL-WIDDICOMB, the King! 
  Never did DON GOMERSALEZ fill the Moslem with more fear,
  When he smote him o’er the mazzard with his streak-o’-lightning
          spear!

  And the scattered gold flew widely, urged by that prodigious kick,
  Smote the Frank behind the throne, although he dodged amazing quick;
  Spattered that insulting Sultan, like a splash of London mud,
  Blackening his dexter eye, and from his “boko” drawing blood.

Then Sir CARLOS EUAN-SMITHEZ gave that Moorish Sultan beans, Holding it foul scorn—­as did the pluckiest of Christian Queens—­ a Christian Knight should take an insult from a turban’d Moor, Without landing him a hot ’un, without giving him what-for!

  Speed thee, speed thee, noble charger!  Speed thee faster than the
          wind! 
  Stout Sir CARLOS EUAN-SMITHEZ leaves that Moorish Fez behind;
  Shakes its sand from off his shoes, and, having wiped the Sultan’s
          eye,
  Turns his back, and takes his hook, without e’en wishing him
          “Good-bye!”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  PARLIAMENTARY PRIVILEGE.

Wife of the Late Member for Tooting. “ARCHIBALD, WHY WERE YOU SO GRUMPY AT THE BIGGE BOOTHBYS’ TO-NIGHT?”