LITMIR.BIZ

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been brought all the way from Kelat to minister to his imperative needs.

      The physician raised the sick man’s eyelids and glanced beneath them. He placed his right hand under the Khan’s head and at the same time pressed an ear to his chest. It seemed enough. He stood erect, with folded arms, bending a searching yet kindly gaze upon the face upturned to his.

      “Tell me!” pleaded the Khan, feebly.

      The Persian gave a quick glance around. Then he answered:

      “They listen.”

      “Let them hear,” said the Khan, raising himself with an effort upon his elbow. “They – are all – friends.”

      A queer look came over the stranger’s face. But he said, in a calm voice:

      “The sickness is fatal. You will die.”

      For a moment the Lion of Mekran returned the other’s gaze steadily. Then he lay back upon his pillows and sighed.

      Agahr, who eyed his master as if fascinated, heaved an echoing sigh, and the group of officials exchanged looks of consternation.

      “When?” asked the Khan, his voice now strong and clear, his eyes on the impassive face before him.

      “A day – an hour,” replied the Persian, slowly. “It is Death’s secret.”

      For a few moments the silence was unbroken save for the splash of the fountain as its perfumed spray fell into the marble basin. Then the Khan again aroused himself.

      “Can you hold Death at bay – for a time?” he asked.

      “How long?”

      “Speak, Agahr!” turning to his vizier. “How long to get my son here – to assemble the Sirdars of the Nine Tribes?”

      Agahr was trembling visibly. He clasped and unclasped his thin hands nervously and glanced first at his master and then at the physician.

      “Speak!” said the latter, sternly.

      “To the monastery of Takkatu is three days’ journey – three days, at least,” he said, hesitatingly. “And for Prince Ahmed to return will require three more. Seven days – a week – with fast riding.”

      “Then,” said the Khan, calmly, “they must ride fast.” He turned to the Persian. “Can you fight Death so long?”

      The Persian nodded. The pluck of Burah Khan aroused his admiration.

      “I will fight Death so long,” said he, gravely.

      “And the sirdars?” asked the sick man, once more turning to his vizier.

      “They can be assembled in five days,” answered Agahr, after a moment’s reflection. “Three are already here.”

      “Good!” declared the Khan. “Let Dirrag ride within the hour.”

      “For the sirdars?”

      “For Ahmed.”

      He fell back again, and a man rose from the group behind Agahr and with an obeisance toward the divan glided swiftly from the courtyard.

      The physician, noting the action, turned to the vizier.

      “Dirrag?” he enquired.

      “Dirrag,” responded the other, mechanically.

      The Persian gave his patient a sharp scrutiny, and drawing a phial from his bosom placed it to the now colorless lips of the Khan.

      “Clear the place,” he commanded Agahr, and without awaiting a response himself stepped quickly through the outer arch.

      Outside Dirrag was mounting a strong Arabian mare. The Persian arrested him with a gesture.

      “The Prince must be here in six days,” he said, in a low but commanding voice. “Six days, or – ”

      “I understand,” said Dirrag, and put spurs to the mare.

      CHAPTER IV

      THE DAUGHTER OF THE VIZIER

      Upon a stone gallery overlooking the courtyard of a handsome dwelling not far from the palace of the khan reclined a girl, beautiful with that mysterious Eastern beauty that has been for ages the despair of poets and artists and which attains its full charm only in the Orient. She was scarcely seventeen years of age, yet her rounded outlines, her graceful poise, her sedate demeanor, all proclaimed her a maiden on the verge of womanhood. Her eyes, round and soft as those of a fawn, were absolutely inscrutable; her features in repose held the immutable expression of the Sphynx. When she smiled sunbeams danced in her eyes and a girlish dimple showed in her chin. But she rarely smiled. The composed, serious, languorous expression dominated her exquisite face.

      The girl was richly dressed. Her silken gown was of finest texture; pearls of rare size were twined in her dark hair; a golden serpent whose every scale was a lustrous diamond spanned her waist; upon her breast glittered a solitary blood-red ruby of historic fame, known in song and story for generations.

      For this maiden was Maie, only daughter of Agahr, Grand Vizier to the Lion of Mekran and to his father before him – the terrible Keedar Khan.

      Next to Burah himself in rank, virtually directing all the civic affairs of the nation, responsible to none save his stern master, Agahr was indeed a personage of vast importance in the realm. The sirdars of the nine fighting tribes of Baluchi, the main support of the Khan, might look upon the vizier scornfully; but they obeyed his laws and avoided any interference with his civic functions.

      Maie was the daughter of Agahr’s old age, his only companion and his constant delight. To her he confided many of the problems that from time to time confronted him, and often a quiet word from the girl’s lips showed him the matter in a new light and guided him in his actions. The old man had discovered a store of common sense in the dainty head of his daughter; the inscrutable velvet eyes were wells of wisdom from which he drew solace and counsel in all difficulties.

      On the evening of this eventful day came Agahr to the gallery where his daughter reclined. And as he sat beside her she turned her eyes upon his face and seemed to read it clearly.

      “The Khan is worse,” said she, quietly.

      “He is dying,” answered the vizier. “The Persian physician has come from Kelat, and he says there is no hope.”

      “We shall be making history soon,” remarked the girl, in soft tones. “The Khan will pass away, and Kasam is here.”

      The vizier moved uneasily on his seat.

      “Kasam is here; yes,” said he. “But no one knows the secret save us. No one knows who our Kasam is.”

      “They will know soon,” returned the girl in a calm, expressionless voice. “Our cousin Kasam is rightful heir to the throne – when the Lion’s eyes are closed in death.”

      “You forget that Burah Khan has also a son,” said the old man, harshly. “Even now Dirrag is riding full speed to the Sunnite monastery at Takkatu to bring hither the Prince Ahmed.”

      “That he may be acknowledged successor to the throne by the assembled sirdars of the Nine Tribes?”

      “Yes.”

      “But the Khan is dying. The Prince cannot arrive in time.”

      “Perhaps not. Yet that accursed Persian has promised to prolong the Khan’s life for seven days. If he succeeds – ”

      The girl bent forward suddenly.

      “He must not succeed!” she exclaimed, in a clear voice.

      Agahr shrank from the intentness of her gaze.

      “Hear me!” she continued. “Kasam is our kinsman; the throne is his by right. Most of our citizens and many of the members of the Nine Tribes secretly favor his claim. A crisis approaches, and we must take advantage of it. The Lion of Mekran must not live seven days. If his son Ahmed, who has been secluded for twenty years in a monastery, and is said to be devoted to Allah, is not here to be recognized as the successor to the throne, the people

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