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 were decidedly not polygamous. But he was one of those men in whom the rising tide of woman's demand for complete emancipation had not scotched that natural and decent impulse called chivalry—and let us say, in parenthesis, that this same instinct, when used by the wrong type of man, makes for licentiousness and domineering arrogance.

“Desire is in his nostrils, is it?” he exclaimed, “and he wants the bridal robe to be of green? Well”—he fingered the hilt of the ancient blade—“I'll see to it that there'l'l be another desire in his nostrils presently …”

“And he shall also long for another color!” shrilled the old nurse, coming out of her trance. “White! White! The calm white of the shroud when we stick his stinking corpse into an unhallowed grave! I like thee, Al Nakia! I like thee well, Son of the Swords!” and she jumped up and gave Hector a noisy smacking kiss.

The princess, too, was excited and happy.

“Thou art master henceforth, Al Nakia!” she said. “Thy orders shall be carried out.”

Hector inclined his head. Here at last was what he had been yearning for—a chance at actions and deeds.

“Good!” he said. “We'll start for Tamerlanistan at once.”

And, half an hour later, with the princess' servants forgetting for once their Oriental disregard of that vulgar western convention called Time, they were under way, after a short, vindictive, but decisive wrangle with the hairy, goatish-smelling Pathan guides