"'This way, sah. Follow the gen'leman, sah,' was the gloss of Bottled Bass.
"The momentous hour had come, and I will not pretend that I approached it without apprehension. But there was no trace of nervousness in my demeanour. I was grave and dignified. Knowing what was due to myself, as well as what was due to my host, I met Senussi-el-Mahdi in the manner in which one high potentate meets another. It is not my fault that his attitude towards me was less courteous.
"Let me give him his due, however. He was a man of imposing and remarkable appearance: tall, with a fine full beard flowing to his waist, yet not hiding the fact that his chin was square and resolute; keen-eyed, as one who read the hearts of those who come before him; slow, but very masterful in his gestures. Save for his dress—he wore loose white robes and a turban on his head—he might have reminded one of those old-fashioned English schoolmasters at whose least word boys trembled. One would not dare to jest with him. He spoke French as well as Arabic.
"I bowed to him most ceremoniously, but he did not return my bow. It was a bad beginning.
"'What would you with me?' he asked curtly; and I explained myself.
"'I have come from a far country,' I said, 'that the light of Senussi-el-Mahdi may shine upon me. I am Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski.'
"He merely stared at me as at some strange insect.
"'Yes,' I repeated, 'I am Jean Antoine Stromboli Kosnapulski, and I bear a letter which will in part explain the reason why I seek this interview.'
"He motioned to a guard, who took the letter from me and placed it in his hands. He read it aloud, translating it for my benefit into French—
"'From Mohammed-ben-Ali of Mecca, to the most Holy Son of the Prophet, the Chosen of God, Senussi-el-Mahdi. Greeting.