'
'Pr'ythee, no more, kind uncle. I have but little heart to mount a
throne, which only ranks me as the first of slaves.'
'Pooh, pooh, you are young. Live we like slaves? Is this hall a servile
chamber? These costly carpets, and these rich divans, in what proud
harem shall we find their match? I feel not like a slave. My coffers are
full of dirhems. Is that slavish? The wealthiest company of the caravan
is ever Bostenay's. Is that to be a slave? Walk the bazaar of Bagdad,
and you will find my name more potent than the Caliph's. Is that a badge
of slavery?'
'Uncle, you toil for others.'
'So do we all, so does the bee, yet he is free and happy.'
'At least he has a sting.'
'Which he can use but once, and when he stings----'
'He dies, and like a hero. Such a death is sweeter than his honey.'
'Well, well, you are young, you are young. I once, too, had fancies.
Dreams all, dreams all. I willingly would see you happy, child. Come,
let that face brighten; after all, to-day is a great day. If you had
seen what I have seen, David, you too would feel grateful. Come, let
us feast. The Ishmaelite, the accursed child of Hagar, he does confess
to-day that you are a prince; this day also you complete your eighteenth
year.
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