On one of the cushions sat a little old man. His face was ugly, swarthy, and repulsive. A gleam of savage cunning in his eyes and a cruel look about his mouth gave him a hateful appearance. Although he seemed to be a person of some importance, Mustapha soon perceived that the tent had not been so richly decorated on his account, and his captors’ words confirmed this--“Where is the Chief?” they asked the little man. “Away hunting,” he replied “but he told me to take his place during his absence!” “More the pity,” replied one of the brigands, “for we must soon decide whether this dog is to die or whether we are to obtain a ransom for him, and that is a question for the Chief to decide, and not for you to meddle with.” [Illustration: _On one of the cushions sat a little old man._ (P. 32.)] The little man raised himself in wrath and attempted to box the ears of the man who had annoyed him by this speech, but as he could not reach to do this, he burst into a perfect volley of abuse, and as the other brigands were not slow to reply, the tent soon resounded with tones of angry voices. But the curtains at the entrance to the tent were suddenly lifted and in came a tall handsome young man, stately and dignified as a Persian prince. His clothing and weapons were plain and unadorned, with the exception of a dagger with a richly decorated hilt and a gleaming sabre. His determined mien and his whole appearance were such as commanded respect without inspiring terror. “Who dares to quarrel in my tent?” he demanded of the startled men. For a moment there was silence and then one of the brigands recounted all that had happened. The Chief’s face reddened with anger--“When have I ever set you in my place, Hassan?” he cried, and the little man seemed to shrink with fear, until he looked smaller than ever. He got up and began to slink out of the tent, when a good kick from the Chief sent him flying out of the doorway. As soon as the little man had disappeared, the three men placed Mustapha before the master of the tent, who had seated himself upon the cushions. “We have brought you the man you bade us bring,” they said. The Chief gazed earnestly at the prisoner and said: “Pasha of Sulieika, your own conscience will tell you why you are in the presence of Orbasan.” On hearing these words Mustapha flung himself at Orbasan’s feet. “You are in error, my lord,” he said, “I am an unfortunate traveller, but not the Pasha of Sulieika.” The brigands appeared to be surprised, but the Chief said: “Dissimulation will not help you, I can bring witnesses to prove your identity.” And he thereupon commanded that one Zuleima should be brought in. An old woman appeared, and on being questioned as to whether or no the man before her was the Pasha of Sulieika, she answered immediately that he was.