'Who is this?' asked an Egyptian merchant, in a low whisper, of the
dealer whose stuffs he was examining.
''Tis the Lord Honain,' replied the dealer. 'And who may he be?'
continued the Egyptian. 'Is he the Caliph's son?'
'A much greater man; his physician.' The white mule stopped at the very
stall where this conversation was taking place. The pages halted, and
stood on each side of their master, the footmen kept off the crowd.
'Merchant,' said Honain, with a gracious smile of condescension, and
with a voice musical as a flute, 'Merchant, did you obtain me my wish?'
'There is but one God,' replied the dealer, who was the charitable
Ali, 'and Mahomed is his Prophet. I succeeded, please your highness, in
seeing at Aleppo the accursed Giaour, of whom I spoke, and behold,
that which you desired is here.' So saying, Ali produced several Greek
manuscripts, and offered them to his visitor.
'Hah!' said Honain, with a sparkling eye, ''tis well; their cost?'
'The infidel would not part with them under five hundred dirhems,'
replied Ali.
'Ibrahim, see that this worthy merchant receive a thousand.'
'As many thanks, my Lord Honain.'
The Caliph's physician bowed gracefully.
'Advance, pages,' continued Honain; 'why this stoppage? Ibrahim, see
that our way be cleared.
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