“He was an utter stranger to me,” said Ezra. “I would not know where to look for him.”
The man laughed softly and seemed satisfied.
“In matters like this,” said he, “it is not always wise to give names or addresses. It might prove inconvenient. However, it does not matter. I will so advise you as to the answer that you cannot well go astray.”
With that Ezra dismounted without more ado. Tying his horse to the gate-post, he followed the man through a low, wide doorway into the house.
The boy was open-eyed for something unusual. What he had heard of Abdallah, and, indeed, the man’s personal appearance, led him to be so; and he was not disappointed.
Without, the house was clumsy and ill-shaped, the product perhaps of an uncouth workman of past generations. It was also neglected, unpainted and weather-stained. The enclosure about it was yellow with the weeds of a summer before.
But within all was different. The shutters did not admit a ray of light; candles, set in queer twisted sconces of copper, burned behind rose-colored shades of glass. Large mirrors glittered upon the walls; the doorways were hung with rich draperies; a soft Turkey carpet and rich rugs were upon the floor. Several broad couches covered with crimson leather stood about.
And books were everywhere—upon shelves, upon tables and chairs; faded scrolls covered with strange Oriental characters were scattered about; queer manuscripts, musty and tattered, lay open to view where some one had been lately consulting them.
On a broad, brick hearth stood a small furnace with a leather bellows attached. Beside this were queer instruments and vessels of metal and glass at whose uses the boy could only guess.
“Be seated, I beg of you,” spoke Abdallah, with grave courtesy. “It is but a poor place to ask a guest; but to what there is, you are welcome indeed.”