“Perhaps my cousin Shabaka will tell us his story,” broke in Amada, her eyes still fixed upon the rose-hued pearls, “and of how he came to win all the beauteous things that dazzle our eyes to-night.”

Now I thought of offering her the pearls, but remembering my mother’s words, also that the Princess might not like to see another woman bear off such a prize, did not do so.  So I began to tell my story instead, Bes seated on the ground near to me by the Prince’s wish, that he might tell his.

The tale was long for in it was much that went before the day when I saw myself in the chariot hunting lions with the King of kings, which I, the modern man who set down all this vision, now learned for the first time.  It told of the details of my journey to the East, of my coming to the royal city and the rest, all of which it is needless to repeat.  Then I came to the lion hunt, to my winning of the wager, and all that happened to me; of my being condemned to death, of the weighing of Bes against the gold, and of how I was laid in the boat of torment, a story at which I noticed Amada turn pale and tremble.

Here I ceased, saying that Bes knew better than I what had chanced at the Court while I was pinned in the boat, whereon all present cried out to Bes to take up the tale.  This he did, and much better than I could have done, bringing out many little things which made the scene appear before them, as Ethiopians have the art of doing.  At last he came to the place in his story where the king asked him if he had ever seen a woman fairer than the dancers, and went on thus: 

“O Prince, I told the Great King that I had; that there dwelt in Egypt a lady of royal blood with eyes like stars, with hair like silk and long as an unbridled horse’s tail, with a shape like to that of a goddess, with breath like flowers, with skin like milk, with a voice like honey, with learning like to that of the god Thoth, with wit like a razor’s edge, with teeth like pearls, with majesty of bearing like to that of the king himself, with fingers like rosebuds set in pink seashells, with motion like that of an antelope, with grace like that of a swan floating upon water, and—­I don’t remember the rest, O Prince.”

“Perhaps it is as well,” exclaimed Peroa.  “But what did the King say then?”

“He asked her name, O Prince.”

“And what name did you give to this wondrous lady who surpasses all the goddesses in loveliness and charm, O dwarf Bes?” inquired Amada much amused.

“What name, O High-born One?  Is it needful to ask?  Why, what name could I give but your own, for is there any other in the world of whom a man whose heart is filled with truth could speak such things?”

Now hearing this I gasped, but before I could speak Amada leapt up, crying,

“Wretch!  You dared to speak my name to this king!  Surely you should be scourged till your bones are bare.”

“And why not, Lady?  Would you have had me sit still and hear those fat trollops of the East exalted above you?  Would you have had me so disloyal to your royal loveliness?”