31() 



THE AMERICAN BEE KEEPER. 



July 



clay, w ..s Vi^i ujy soul so purinecl'.- I 

 fixed ii;y thought upcii the uizam's dia- 

 mond. 



Red clouds rolliug rapidly; out of 

 them a touch of blue sky, a whirl of yel- 

 low dust, a t;un that beat dowu fiercely 

 from midheaveu; the walls of a city, a 

 city with queer minarets and towers, 

 and strange palaces; a city with a huge 

 gateway through which passed in and 

 out a ujotley array of strange garbed 

 people; bullocks and carts, and then a 

 lumbering elephant, and red coated sol- 

 diers, and white turbaued men with 

 brown faces. And the air was hot and 

 dry, and a strange odor came to my nos- 

 trils. 



Then in a corner by the huge portals 

 I noted a crouching figure — a turbani d 

 native with strange rings in his ears 

 and an eye that gleamed with a start- 

 ling whiteness. And on him my 

 thought centered. Then he arose from 

 his bent position and slunk forth. As 

 be passed aaiid the snarling dogs thar 

 lought and yelped beyond the city 

 walls I noticed that in the folds of his 

 garments he held a long, keen knife. 

 Ever and auon he looked over his shoul- 

 der as he slouched along. And the sun 

 glared, and the desert spread before 

 him, and the dust arose in yellow puffs. 



Then came two native soldiers riding 

 on weary horses, and they cried out at 

 sight of the footman. And when they 

 dismounted to seize him the knife 

 flashed, and one soldier lay silent at his 

 feet, and tiie other fled across the gleam- 

 ing desert, and the knife was red. 



There were clouds and confu.seJ 

 scenes, and out from them all the man 

 with the Tv\ k;;ife pressed on, in his 

 eyes a strange ligh'j;, a gleam, half ter- 

 ror, half desperation, the look of a 

 haunted man, whose fate impels hiia 

 forward. Then another city, a city of 

 whitewashed walls and many huts and 

 few palaces and stretches of the sea and 

 the masts of ships. 



The swish of waves, and the roaring 

 of the wind, and the rattle of cordage, 

 and in the midst of the ship the brown 

 faced man calmly indifferent to the 

 tempest. 



More clouds and long blanks of cha- 

 otic nothingness. My eyes find them- 

 selves gazing at the wall of my room, 

 and preseutl.v it opens and through it 



steps the man who crouched by the city 

 gates. Step by step he comes to my bed- 

 side, and his eye glistens and his knife 

 is red, and my eye never leaves his. 



Then he pauses and bends low with 

 his arms mitstretched. 



"Sahib," be murmurs, and his voice 

 is singularly low and gentle, "I am 

 here. ' ' 



"The diamond I" I hoarsely murmur. 



He removes his turban and slowly 

 unwinds ils many folds. As he does so 

 the room seems filled with the rustle of 

 garments, and a strange, sweet perfume 

 eomes to me. There are whispers, too, 

 Rnri a sound like a stifled .sob. 



Slowly the stranger unfolds his tur- 

 ban, and suddenly out of it leaps a 

 great whiJc pebble. He lifts it bf i'ore 

 me betwixt his lean brown thumb and 

 forefinger, i nd I know that in his other 

 hand he hoMs the red knife. 



"The diu jOiid of the uizam, sahib," 

 he murmurs. 



As hi! speaks a sudden ray of sun- 

 light falls upon the white pebble and a 

 mighty glory seems to fill the room. 



My eyelids drop before that glare. I 

 see the brown face of the Indian bend 

 lower. 1 see his fingers clutching at his 

 knife. The room grows dark and yet 

 darker. I seem to be slipping away, 

 slipping away. 



"John!" 



Is that ray name? Is somebody call- 

 ing me.^ What is this that holds my 

 baud and draws me back? No, no; let 

 me go. 



"John!" 



Surely jjc:i!Cbody is calling me. 



I open my eyes slowly, so slowly. 

 Across the level of my bed I see the face 

 of ilQO':i\v \:[-.uhii, forward, his fer.tnros 

 in the shade .v, his eyes gleaming with 

 frightened ar.xiety, in his hand a tiny 

 medicine glass that catches a dazzling 

 ray of sunli,:ht. Somebody else is there, 

 somebody who liolds my hand tightly, 

 somebody who calls again: 



"John, deiir!" 



I raise my eyes a little higher. An- 

 other face is bending over me, a white, 

 tear stained face.- 



"John!" 



It is Mary. 



And .*o 1 ca!ue back. — W. R. Rose in 

 Cleveland F].*in Dealer. 



