I dwelt in the Palace of the Mountain of the Clouds in the Garden of Irem, above the City of Babel. HORACE. [_To himself._] Why, of _course_! Sylvia! The Arabian Nights! [_To FAKRASH._] I can quite account for you _now_--but go on. FAKRASH. For a certain offence that I committed, the wrath of Suleymán, the son of Dáood--on whom be peace!--[_he salaams_]--was heavy against me, and he commanded that I should be enclosed within a bottle of brass, and thrown into the Sea of El-Karkar, there to abide the Day of Doom. HORACE. Don't think I'm _believing_ in you. [_Walking round the front of the bottle, as if to test FAKRASH by touching him._] I've sense enough to know you're not _real_! [_He withdraws his hand without venturing upon the experiment._ FAKRASH. Stroke thy head and recover thy faculties! I am real, even as thou art. [_He touches HORACE'S shoulder; HORACE recoils._ HORACE. I shall come round in time! [_By the table, to FAKRASH._] You tell me you've just come out of this bottle? FAKRASH. Dost thou doubt that it is even as I have said? HORACE. Well, I should have thought myself you'd take a bigger size in bottles. But of course, I couldn't doubt you if I saw you get _into_ it again. FAKRASH. That would be the easiest of actions! [_He makes a sudden swooping movement, as though to re-enter the bottle, and then thinks better of it._] But I should indeed be a silly-bearded one to do this thing, since thou mightst be tempted to seal me up once more! HORACE. [_Disappointed, and backing against table, half afraid._] Too knowing an old bird to be caught like that, aren't you? But _I_ don't mind! You'll disappear presently. FAKRASH. True, O young man of perfect qualities and good works! But I will not leave thee before I have rewarded thy kindness. For in the sky it is written upon the pages of the air: "He who doeth kind actions shall experience the like!" Therefore--[_with a lordly gesture_]--demand of me what thou wilt, and thou shalt receive! HORACE. Oh, I shall be awake so soon it's not worth while troubling you. FAKRASH. Dismiss bashfulness from thee. [_Advancing towards him._] For by thy hand hath my deliverance been accomplished, and if I were to serve thee for a thousand years, regarding nothing else, even thus could I not requite thee! HORACE. [_Retreating in some alarm to window._] Look here. I don't want _anything_, and--and the best thing _you_ can do is to vanish. FAKRASH. [_At back of table._] Not till thou hast told me thy name and the trade that thou followest. HORACE. Oh, you'll go _then_? [_FAKRASH assents._] Well, I'll humour you. My name is Horace Ventimore, and I'm an architect. I get my living by building houses, you know. Or rather, I _should_, if I could only get hold of a client--which I can't. FAKRASH.