“Come, sweet voice of the night,” he said, as he approached the tent.
But Girzilla was asleep.
“My own gazelle——”
Max moved uneasily.
“I will sing to thee the songs of Istaphan. I will make thee a throne upon which thou shalt sit as queen of my heart.”
“Am I dreaming,” asked Max, “or where am I? Ah, I remember! I died out on the sand. Girzilla was with me. Where is she? Is this death? I am very comfortable. Am I dead? I don’t feel like it.”
Max pinched himself and smiled.
“If I am dead, I can hurt myself I find. This isn’t sand. By the great Jehosaphat! it is carpet, and I am in a tent. I have it—I am not dead, but only kidnaped. I’ll get up and have a look around.”
“My beauteous one, speak to me again, and let the son of Iran hear the liquid notes that pour from the throat of my gentle gazelle.”
“Who is there?” asked Max, gruffly.