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Updated: May 24, 2025
Magin's heavy voice resounded in the portico very like a bellow. "You, Ganz, sent this man to the Father of Swords? He might be one of those lieutenants from India who go smelling around in their holidays, so pink and innocent!" "What is that to me?" demanded the Swiss, raising his own voice. "Or to you either? After all, Senhor Magin, are you the Emperor of Elam?" The Brazilian laughed.
"And I suppose you will end by getting a million, eh?" "No such luck! But I'm getting a piano. Did I tell you? A Blüthner. It's already on the way up from Mohamera." "A Blüthner! In Shuster! God in heaven! Why did you wait until I had gone?" "Well, aren't you still here?" The fact of Magin's being still there, so unexpectedly, hung in his mind.
The blade glittered in the brightening air and splashed out of sight. And Magin, folding his arms, smiled again at Gaston. "Another object of virtue for the safe custody of the Karun!" "But not all!" cried Gaston thickly, seizing the little pile of gold beside him and flinging it after the knife. Magin's smile broadened. "Have you not forgotten something, Gaston?"
Matthews' Persian servant handed up to Magin's butler a tray of tea glasses on which Matthews also noted a bottle. In honor of that bottle Gaston himself stood up and took off his greasy cap. "A thousand thanks, Monsieur," he said. "I have tasted nothing so good since I left France." "In that case, my friend," rejoined Magin in French as good as his English, "it is time you returned!"
And the rumble of Magin's bass in the dark stone room somehow threw a light on the melancholy land without, somehow gave him a dim sense that he did not answer for himself alone that he answered for the tradition of Layard and Rawlinson and Morier and Sherley, of Clive and Kitchener, of Drake and Raleigh and Nelson, of all the adventurous young men of that beloved foggy island at which this pseudo-Brazilian jeered.
It would have been inconceivable to him, as he stood in his dark stone room listening to Magin's receding stamp, that anything could make him do what Magin demanded. Yet something did it the last drop of the strange essence Dizful had been brewing for him. The letter that accomplished this miracle came to him by the hand of a Bakhtiari from Meidan-i-Naft. It said very little.
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