After that the Amîr’s cook waited upon me daily at my house to receive orders.
A day or two after this, on Sunday, January 19th, I was called before daybreak to vaccinate the little Prince, Mahomed Omer. The very fat man, Hakim Abdur Rashid, came for me while I was dressing; the servants prepared tea and then we started. The Prince was not living in the harem with his mother, the Sultana: he had a house of his own not very far from mine.
The Hakim waddled by my side, talking and talking, and panting, and still talking in his unctuous voice, and I stalked on in the darkness. Dawn was so near that we brought no lanterns, and before we reached the house the light of morning was gleaming on the snow. At the high gate, leading to the gardens, was a sentry with fixed bayonet.
Just as we reached the gate an old “sakabi,” or water-carrier, was passed in by the sentry. Before he was allowed to cross the gardens with his leather water-bag to fill the house deghchis, or water-pots, the sentry made him unloose his turban and droop the end of it over his eyes so that he could see on the ground only.
“Women about?” I said to the Armenian.
“Yes, sir. Highness’ sister here and other lady.”
“Shall we see them?” I asked.
“Sir. Please you not talk. Perhaps this fat man understand. Highness make angry if he hear.”
Our eyes were not bandaged, though the Armenian and I were a good deal younger than the “sakabi.” The fat Hakim did not count. We crossed the garden and went up some steps into a lobby and the Hakim called out:—