“I am looking for Sheik Ilderim, surnamed the Generous,” the stranger said.
His language and attire bespoke him a Roman.
What he could not read, he yet could speak; so the old Arab answered, with dignity, “I am Sheik Ilderim.”
The man’s eyes fell; he raised them again, and said, with forced composure, “I heard you had need of a driver for the games.”
Ilderim’s lip under the white mustache curled contemptuously.
“Go thy way,” he said. “I have a driver.”
He turned to ride away, but the man, lingering, spoke again.
“Sheik, I am a lover of horses, and they say you have the most beautiful in the world.”
The old man was touched; he drew rein, as if on the point of yielding to the flattery, but finally replied, “Not to-day, not to-day; some other time I will show them to you. I am too busy just now.”
He rode to the field, while the stranger betook himself to town again with a smiling countenance. He had accomplished his mission.