“Whoorroo! There is not, in all Mandu, a gem so wonderful! Thy family, Asra, must be powerful indeed! Come, as the price of keeping thy treasure, relate to us its merits as a charm, and how it came to be thine.” Fidá was deeply troubled. He gazed at Ragunáth, who, forgetting himself, was leaning over the tray, his eyes fixed—was it hungrily?—upon that gleaming stone. There was an eagerness in the clear-cut face that was too easy to read; and as he watched, Fidá saw the man’s hands fairly tremble for the gem. Rai-Khizar-Pál was wholly different. His face, as he examined the stone, expressed pleasure; but there was not a hint of avarice in his large, quiet eyes. After three or four minutes of hesitation and inward struggle on the part of Fidá, the King exclaimed: “Thy tale, Fidá! Or wouldst really lose the jewel to me?” “The jewel,” cut in Ragunáth, in a smooth, quiet voice, “belongs by right of war to the Rajah. No slave should possess such a fortune as this.” “Ah, good counsellor, there thou’rt wrong. This Mohammedan is not a Sudra. Moreover, he does not carry the ruby as riches, but for a reason that we wait to hear. Come, Fidá, speak!” The King laid the ruby on the tray before him, and began to eat, slowly. At the same time Fidá, overpressed, entered upon his tale; and during the whole of the recital his eyes never once rested on the jewel, but were fixed unwinkingly on Ragunáth’s æsthetic profile. “O conqueror, the story of this jewel that you bid me tell is stranger than you think. ’Tis such a story as is scarcely to be found outside of fairy lore. And yet I stand here to prove that it is true.