“Call me not holy!” cried Shems-ud-dìn in horror. “There is none holy save God alone. I give thanks for thy goodness, O light of my eyes! Very kind hast thou been to me these last days. Nevertheless, I shall rejoice when we ride out from hence. It tires me, all this honor undeserved. My head aches with the burden of it.” At length came the morn when Milhem rode forth from that city at the head of a hundred armed horsemen. Certain of the notables of Esh-Shâm bore him company a part of the way, and many of the learned paid the like compliment to Shems-ud-dìn, who cut no mean figure in the cavalcade, mounted as he was upon a coal-black charger, richly caparisoned with housings of gold and scarlet and light blue. Out through the orchards they pranced in the cool of morning, and peasants at work among the trees stood idle a space to admire their bravery. Anon the orchards gave place to vineyards, the vineyards in turn fell away, and the desert rolled out before them, smooth and bare. Then, a halt being called, the promenaders from the city took leave of the serious wayfarers. “It is the pilgrim’s road. You face the kibleh!” one called to Shems-ud-dìn. “Allah hold you in safe keeping!” Shems-ud-dìn rode beside Milhem at the head of his retinue. Their way led straight across the brown waste—a track a mile wide marked by the horde of pilgrims wending yearly to Mekka. Here and there, upon the sky line, rose a wave of faint blue mountain. The sun shone hot on their left cheeks. Milhem was in high spirits. Ever and anon he turned in the saddle to gaze with pride upon his suite, who rode at ease, smoking cigarettes, talking and laughing lightly together. “Art thou happy?” asked Shems-ud-dìn. “Very happy. Praise be to Allah who has freed my hand at last. I have not known such elation since the day when the Muscovites fled from before Silistria.” “Silistria! Wast thou really there? I have not heard thee speak of it. The story, I beseech thee.” “I speak but of the joy felt by all believers when the place was relieved. I was not of the heroes.” “But thou thyself hast done brave deeds, O my brother?” “Yes, surely,” said Milhem; and he proceeded to recount a few of them. That night, in a pavilion pitched on the open plain, the guards lying upon the ground without, around their watch fires, Shems-ud-dìn could not sleep for the wonder of those tales. Himself a timid man, he loved to hear of wild encounters. He strove to place himself in some of the perils braved by Milhem, and thought he would have died of fright. There seemed no end to Milhem’s strange adventures. On the morrow he remembered more of them, which he told with a wealth of homely circumstance which enabled Shems-ud-dìn to witness all he heard. For the listener, those long marches passed as the Thousand and One Nights must have passed for King Shahriar.