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Khazib, with a faint salutation of his turban towards the newcomer, went slowly, sonorously on with his tale. "We fear," said the damsel unto Azib, "lest thou contraire our charge and disobey our injunctions. For a moment the café faded from Ryder's eyes.
The story teller proceeded, "Then, quoth Prince Azib, now verily am I the monarch of the age, since by Allah's grace this enormous wealth is mine; and I have forty damsels under my hand nor is there any to claim them save myself." The handsome Arab beside Ryder inhaled his pipe luxuriously. "By the grace of Allah!" he said reverently.
A green-turbaned Arab, with the profile of a Washington and the naïve eyes of youth, whispered to him courteously that it was the tale of the Third Kaland, and the Prince Azib was in the palace of the forty damsels who were farewelling him, as they were to depart, according to custom, for forty days.
"When I saw her weeping," Khazib was intoning, and now Ryder attended, his scanty knowledge of the vernacular straining and overleaping the blanks, "Prince Azib said to himself, 'By Allah, I will never open that fortieth door, never, and in no wise!" "A wise bird," thought Ryder to himself, drawing on his cigarette. "And I bade her farewell," continued the voice slipping into the first person.
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