After some conversation, in which Mustapha managed to give the impression that he was a very learned man, Thiuli said he would take this opportunity of having all his slaves examined and ascertain the state of their health. Mustapha was overjoyed to think that he was so soon to see his beloved sister again, but in this he was mistaken. Thiuli conducted him to his seraglio, it is true, but when they reached a splendidly-furnished room there was no one in it. “Chambaba, or whatever your name may be, dear doctor,” said Thiuli, “behold this opening in the wall. Through this each of my slaves shall pass her arm and you can feel her pulse, and ascertain the state of her health.” Mustapha made some objection to this arrangement, but Thiuli would not consent to alter it, only he did consent to give a few hints as to the previous state of their healths. [Illustration: _The slave slipped her hand through the opening._ (P. 46.)] Drawing a strip of paper from his girdle Thiuli now began to call out the names of his slaves, and as he called the slave who answered to the name slipped her hand through the opening. Six times had Mustapha felt the pulses and pronounced six slaves in good health, and then came the name of Fatima. Trembling with joy Mustapha grasped the little white hand and then, with a grave air, pronounced the patient to be very ill. Thiuli was very much concerned and asked the wise Chakamankabudibaba to prepare a medicine for her which could not fail to cure her. Mustapha left the room and wrote the following message: “Fatima, I will save you if you will consent to the following plan. I will give you a draught which will make you appear dead for two days; I have another draught in my possession which will restore you. If you consent, pretend that the simple draught I will send you has been of no avail; I shall know this is a sign that you agree and will see that the more potent draught is given you next.” He soon returned to the room, where Thiuli awaited him, bringing with him a harmless draught which he handed to Fatima. He felt her pulse once more, and managed at the same time to slip the little note under her bracelet; Thiuli was so distressed about Fatima’s illness that he thought of no one else, and put off the medical examination of the other slaves until a more convenient season. When he and Mustapha had left the room he said to him sorrowfully: “Chadibaba, tell me frankly what you think of Fatima’s state.” “Alas!” answered the wise physician, heaving a deep sigh: “may the prophet give you consolation for I cannot. Fatima is suffering from a malignant fever from which I am afraid she will not recover.” Far from appreciating the plain speaking he had begged for, Thiuli flew into a great rage--“You wretched quack,” cried he, “do you mean to say that the slave for whom I paid two thousand gold pieces is to die like an old cow? Take note, if you do not manage to save her life I will have you beheaded.”