“Look!” he said, in a low whisper, bending toward them. “Look at the lamp! See how it throws out to you all the light, all the fire of the diamond.” Slowly and mechanically, in obedience to his direction, they turned their eyes toward the gorgeous hanging lamp. It was as the Doctor said. From its glittering, multi-colored glass sides the light seemed to refract in a thousand variegated shades. The smoke issued from between the smokers’ lips in slow and dreamy puffs; the rose-water bubbled rhythmically in the pipe; the sweet music played on. * * * * * The odor of a strange incense seemed to fill the air. The lamp, grown to giant dimensions, appeared to send forth shafts of ever-changing light. The walls of the cave rolled back, disclosing magnificent cathedral aisles, boundless in expanse and rich in marble and porphyry and gilt, through which the majestic tones of an organ swelled. A sense of religious fervor and of overmastering awe filled their souls. The scene changed. They were amid the gorgeous splendors of an Oriental palace--a palace which in its vastness was lost to all sense of proportion and whose massive dome reached high to heaven. Hark! The strains of barbaric music, the clashing of cymbals. A multitude of dancing girls spring, fairy-like, into motion and move and sway in all the graceful, voluptuous motions of the Oriental dance. Their gazelle-like eyes sparkle; the ornaments upon their bosoms flash--surely this is the inner Paradise of Mohammed! Again the scene changes. The great dome of the Eastern palace parts in twain and they are slowly and deliciously wafted upward. They have no sense of the strangeness of their situation--no fear. Upward, ever upward, they pass to giddy heights and yet this same sense of all-pervading contentment and happiness. The air about them is laden with the perfumes of Araby, and strains of melody of more than earthly sweetness greet the enraptured senses. This must be the music of the spheres--the chant of the heavenly choir! And through this perfumed, music-laden air they are drifting--drifting--drifting---- * * * * * The amber mouthpieces had dropped from the smokers’ lips; their heads had sunk back upon the cushions; their lids were closed. Gently, cautiously, the Doctor rose, his black eyes dilated with excitement. Over the sleepers he bent, making mysterious passes toward them as they lay. For an hour or more he thus worked; then with a sigh of exhaustion, the perspiration starting from his brow, he stepped back and contemplated them. “Sleep on, my friends,” he exclaimed, with a chuckle of satisfaction; “sleep on. Thus could I let you sleep for weeks--many weeks--but, I take it, the twenty-four hours will be enough to convince you that the Doctor Jaquet can make all the world to sleep.”