"Yes, we had heard them at dinner. They were very loud that night. I told the _kavass_ he was mistaken. Hafiz couldn't have gone that way, it was full moon and we should have seen him, but the old fellow wouldn't be denied. It was the drum of Timur, he said--no one could resist it who heard. I didn't know the story then, but the old father was so distressed that I offered to go with him along the path. So taking my revolver, we set out. We had gone about a mile along the river's edge when we came to an old khan. The drum was being beaten inside, so we thought, but my _kavass_ said it was impossible because the khan was roofless and no one lived in it. Anyhow, we could hear the _saz_ droning away. So we pushed open the creaking old gateway. "Inside the courtyard there was a pool, and a fountain that never flowed. The moon shone down on the pool which was so still that it reflected the stars. Round the old khan buildings ran the galleries, in rectangular form. The moon threw a deep blue shadow half across the courtyard, and as we stood there, peering into the deserted place, it seemed as if we had entered into a strange world where only the shadows moved. We stood there, I should think, for quite a minute, transfixed by the silent beauty of the place, when the old man suddenly gave a cry. I followed his gaze and saw what he had seen. There, on the other side of the fountain, lay the naked body of a youth. At first I thought it was a marble statue, it was so white and perfect in form, but the old man ran forward and as I came up to him, I saw the head of the youth was covered with a mass of loose, black curls. The poor old father flung himself on his knees and gathered up the body in his arms, sobbing as he did so. "I never saw such a youth as Hafiz. He was quite naked and the whiteness of his flesh was intensified by the moonlight bathing his body, and the head of black hair. He had fallen sideways, with one hand resting on his thigh, the other clenched and stretched out towards the basin. There was no sign of any struggle. The face was composed, just as if he had fallen asleep, and there was nothing on the ground or anywhere about to suggest violence, but his clothes were all missing and to me this was conclusive proof that robbery had been the motive of the crime; no doubt he'd been strangled. The poor old father who had been speechless with grief for some time, shook his head when I spoke of strangulation. 'No, effendi,' he said quietly, with a touch of fatalism in his voice, 'It is the drum of Timur--look!' His finger pointed to the left breast of the youth, and I saw what had escaped me in the first hurried examination. Just over the heart there was a short, red line, not the incision left by a dagger, but such as a penknife might make.