I have
heard that ye Feringi have greatly mourned the loss of the Arwam
learning and poetry. Not all this treasure was lost, White Sheik!"
The Master started, peered at Bara Miyan and forgot to chew his
soothing khat leaves.
"And then--?" asked he.
"Some twenty thousand of the most precious parchments were privately
carried by our _Sufis_ to Medina, and thence, after many years, to
Jannati Shahr. Here they still lie, in perfect form, clearly to be
read. This is a treasure that would set the world of the Feringi
ablaze and make thee as a god among thy people. Ask this gift,
O Frank, and it shall be granted thee! For the mere asking, this
treasure shall be thine!"
The Master shook his head. Deeply as he understood the incalculable
value of the lost books of antiquity, he well knew that to offer his
Legion such a booty would be all in vain. Men who have suffered and
bled, risked all, seen their comrades die, and even now stand in
the shadow of death--hoping some vast, tangible loot--are not proper
material for discussion of literary values.
"_Yafta Allah!_" the Master exclaimed, with emphasis equal to the
Olema's. "No, Bara Miyan, this cannot be.
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