A memory was struggling for identification in my addled brain; but whether it was due to something I had seen, heard, or smelled, I could not for the life of me make out. I heard myself spinning my own improbable yarn as one listens to a dreary and boresome recitation; _I_ didn't seem to be the raconteur; my mind was busy about that amber room, furiously chasing that hare-like memory, which leaped and doubled, dived under the silken cushions, popped up behind the Pasha, and flicked its ears at me from amid the feathers of the peacock fan. I driveled right on to the end of my story, mechanically, without having got my mind in proper working order; and when the Pasha spoke again--there was that wretched memory still dodging me, sometimes almost within my grasp, but always just eluding it. "Your amusing narrative has diverted me," said the Pasha; and he clapped his hands three times. It never occurred to me, you will note, to assert myself in any way; I accepted the lordly condescensions of this singular personage without protest. You will be wondering why I didn't kick up a devil of a hullabaloo--declare that I had come in response to screams for assistance--wave the dreaded name of the British Agent under the Pasha's nose, and all that. I can only say that I didn't; I was subdued; in fact I was down, utterly down and out. Black Robe entered with eyes averted. "Well, wretched vermin!" roared the Pasha in sudden wrath; "do you tell me they are not here?" The man, with his head bumping on the carpet, visibly trembled. "Most noble," he replied hoarsely, "your lowly slave has exerted himself to the utmost----" "Out! son of a calamity!" shouted the Pasha--and before my astonished eyes he raised the heavy _narghli_ and hurled it at the bowed head of the man before him. It struck the white turban with a resounding crack, and then was shattered to bits upon the floor. It was a blow to have staggered a mule. But Black Robe, without apparent loss of dignity, rose and departed, bowing. The Pasha sat rocking about, and plucking madly at his beard. "O Allah!" he cried, "how I suffer." He turned to me. "Never since the day that another of your race (but, this one, a true son of Satan) came to my palace, have I tasted so much suffering. You shall judge of my clemency, O imprudent stranger, and pacify your heart with the spectacle of another's punishment." He clapped his hands twice. This time there was a short delay, which the Pasha suffered impatiently; then there entered the squint-eyed man, together with the two Scimitars. "I would visit the dungeon of the false Pasha," said my singular host; and, rising to his feet, he placed his hand upon my shoulder and indicated that we were to proceed from the apartment.