At the sound of my voice, the three blind men cried out “Aha!” and broke into a fresh song:
“The peddler and the peddler’s maid, oh fair as milk was she,
And she promised on her honor she would marry one of three,—”
“Silence, rascals!” said Babadag.
I was becoming, all this while, more and more restless, for I had no doubt that all this talk of marriage had reference to my own daughter. I wondered bitterly what mischief she had been up to during my absence.
“These rascals,” said Babadag, still laughing, “sometimes I am minded to put them to death. I don’t know really why I let them live. Now then, excellent one, let us hear the tale.”
I bowed, and while the repast proceeded, and the three ballad singers remained standing behind our chairs, I related to Babadag, as follows,
THE STORY OF NOBBUD BALD-ER-DASH THE PEDDLER
“In the course of my wanderings,” I began, “I arrived one day at a spring in the wilderness, beside which were encamped a company of—”
“I think,” said Solario, interrupting himself, “that I cannot conscientiously repeat this story, because—”