Mishallah!
The quiet which held the company through the recitation endured a space afterwards, and—if the expression be allowed—was in itself a commentary upon the performance.
"Where is our worthy Professor of Rhetoric?" asked Constantine.
"Here, Your Majesty," answered the man of learning, rising.
"Canst thou not give us a lecture upon the story with which thy Arabian brother hath favored us?"
"Nay, sire, criticism, to deal justly, waiteth until the blood is cool. If the Sheik will honor me with a copy of his lines, I will scan and measure them by the rules descended to us from Homer, and his Attic successors."
The eyes of the Emperor fell next upon the moody, discontented face of Duke Notaras.
"My lord Admiral, what sayest thou of the tale?"
"Of the tale, nothing; of the story-teller—I think him an insolent, and had I my way, Your Majesty, he should have a plunge in the Bosphorus."
Presuming the Sheik unfamiliar with Latin, the Duke couched his reply in that tongue; yet the former raised his head, and looked at the speaker, his eyes glittering with intelligence—and the day came, and soon, when the utterance was relentlessly punished.