A soldier stood out before them in the gate of the city, while two more issued yawning from the guardhouse.
Shems-ud-dìn proffered his teskereh, but the sentry scouted it.
“That allows you to travel; good. By what authority do you travel armed like soldiers?”
“Look hither. Canst read?” said Hassan loftily; and he held out a copy of that old firmàn naming him Guardian of the Frontier, which he was in the habit of carrying about to confute the skeptical.
“What is this?”
“Canst thou not see? It bears the Tûghra, the handmark of Power.”
“Is it some antique?”
“Dog! Dost scoff at the hand of the Padishah? Let pass, or thy punishment shall be horrible. Know that we have with us a greater man than thou ever sawest in all thy life of sin——”
“Is it this man?” broke in the soldier impudently, pointing with his finger at Zeyd, the son of Abbâs, who, on his miserable donkey, in his ragged clothing, cut the sorriest figure imaginable.