Salaman was on his way back with a silver dish, on which lay a melon and knife, while one of the bearers carried a plate and sugar.
The former glanced at Dost, as he paused, and then placed the melon before me.
“It is beautifully ripe, my lord,” he said, “and will quench your thirst.”
I laughed.
“It is good to see my lord smile,” said Salaman, “he is better, and it makes my heart glad.”
“I was laughing,” I said, “because the old fakir must be thirstier than I. All those hot words must have burned his throat.”
Salaman smiled, but became solemn again directly.
“Truly his words were hot, my lord,” he said.
“Then cut him a big piece of the melon, and give him, before I touch it, and he thinks it is defiled.”
Salaman looked pleased, and obeyed my words, placing the melon in Dost’s lap; but the latter did not move or unclose his eyes, but sat there perfectly motionless, with the piece of the fruit in his lap, while I partook of mine, which was delicious in the extreme, and I enjoyed it as I saw how completely the people about me were deceived.