'Who and what are you?' said Aslan Sultan.
'I,' said the prisoner, in a very subdued voice,—'I beg to state, for the good of your service, that I am nothing—I am a poor man.'
'What's your business?'
'I am a poet, at your service; what can I do more?'
'A poet!' cried one of the roughest of the Turcomans; 'what is that good for?'
'Nothing,' answered Aslan Sultan, in a rage; 'he won't fetch ten tomauns;[16] poets are always poor, and live upon what they can cozen from others. Who will ransom a poet? But if you are so poor,' said Aslan Sultan, 'how do you come by those rich clothes?'
'They are part of a dress of honour,' returned the poet, 'which was lately conferred upon me by the Prince of Shiraz, for having written some verses in his praise.'
Upon which the clothes were taken from him, a sheep-skin cloak given to him in return, and he was dismissed for the present. Then came the short man.
'Who are you?' said the chief: 'what is your profession?'
'I am a poor cadi,' answered the other.