“Am I dreaming,” asked Max, “or where am I? Ah, I remember! I died out on the sand. Girzilla was with me. Where is she? Is this death? I am very comfortable. Am I dead? I don’t feel like it.” Max pinched himself and smiled. “If I am dead, I can hurt myself I find. This isn’t sand. By the great Jehosaphat! it is carpet, and I am in a tent. I have it--I am not dead, but only kidnaped. I’ll get up and have a look around.” “My beauteous one, speak to me again, and let the son of Iran hear the liquid notes that pour from the throat of my gentle gazelle.” “Who is there?” asked Max, gruffly. He sprang to his feet, and moved slowly, and kept close to the side of the tent until he reached the opening. “My sweet enchantress, I feel that I could----” “You could, eh? Well, how do you feel now?” Max had struck out from the shoulder, and Ibrahim went heels over head into the sand. “How do you feel?” asked Max, in English. To his surprise, he was answered in the same language. “Feel! Very sore. Where did you get so much strength?” “Who are you?” asked Max. “I am Ibrahim of Khorassan; and who are you?” “Well, Mr. Abraham----” “Ibrahim,” corrected the youth. “Well, Ibrahim, I am Max; that is enough for you. If it isn’t, I am also the madcap, and I can fight as well as talk. How do you feel?” “So you are the young fellow we picked up in the sand?” “I don’t know. I only know that I don’t know, I mean I know----” “You know plenty,” said Ibrahim, laughing at the confusion displayed by Max. “Where am I?” “In the tent belonging to Sherif el Habib of Khorassan: and I am Ibrahim, his nephew and friend.” “Where is Girzilla?” “Who is that? Your sister?” “My sister? No; my friend, my guide, my----” “You mean the charming creature whose eloquence is the sweetest music mine ears have ever heard?” “When did you hear? What do you know?” asked Max, abruptly. “Don’t get mad. I am Ibrahim of Khorassan.” “I don’t care who you are.” “But my uncle is the great chief, Sherif el Habib----” “I don’t care for that, either; I don’t care whether he is a sheriff, a policeman, or a soldier.” Ibrahim laughed. He understood Max, and the idea of confusing the Persian Sherif with the English sheriff amused him. “You don’t understand--that is my uncle’s name.” “Fetch him here and let me see him.” Ibrahim was astounded. The way Max spoke was something for which he was not prepared. The sun was rising very rapidly, and as its rays, tinted with the morning hues, fell upon the glittering sand and white tents, Max was dazzled. “Where am I?” “You are with the caravan of the great Persian chief, Sherif el Habib. My uncle found you dying, and he brought you and your sister here.” “Thanks, awfully! Shake hands--that is what we do in England and America----” The youths clasped their hands. “We shall be friends?” said Ibrahim. “I hope so.” “Have you a father?” asked the Persian. “Alas! no. He was murdered at Cairo.” “We shall be comrades?”