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"At the gates of the ziggurat, Landon tossed the reins to Ismeddin."
LANDON'S pavilion was pitched on a crest that rose high above the broad plain of Babîl. About the foot of the mound his men were encamped: some quarreling, smoking, gambling, diverting themselves after the day's march; others walking their posts in the darkness beyond the guard-fires. Landon himself awaited the arrival of the chief of his caravan, Haaj Ismeddin, the ex-darvish.
"Es salaam aleika, saidi," greeted the old man as he entered the pavilion.
"And with you, exceeding peace, Haaji," returned Landon. "Where are we tonight?" he questioned as the old man seated himself on the rug at the master's feet.
"We are on the plains of Babîl," intoned the old man sonorously, beginning his recital which only in its details varied from that of the day before, and the many days previous to that one. "Just before us is Mosul, and far behind us is Balkh; to our right is the Tigris, and close at hand is the mound of Koyunjik, under which is buried a lost city of the infidels who once ruled this land."
"Where have we been, Haaji?"
"We have been in all the lands of the earth, saidi," replied the pilgrim. "We have heard the tinkling sitar in Herat of the Hundred Gardens, and heard the splash of their fountains; we have seen the star of evening flame high above the un-
