He found the old man sitting cross-legged behind the counter; a noble-looking, aged Mussulman, with a long beard like white silk, with cashmeres and broidered stuffs of peerless texture hanging above his head, and all around him things of silver, of gold, of ivory, of amber, of feathers, of bronze, of emeralds, of ruby, of beryl, whose rich colors glowed through the darkness.
"No coffee, no sherbet; thanks, good father," said Cecil, in answer to the Moor's hospitable entreaties.

"Give me only license to sit in the quiet here.

I am very tired." "Sit and be welcome, my son," said Ben Arsli.

"Whom should this roof shelter in honor, if not thee?
Musjid shall bring thee the supreme solace." The supreme solace was a nargile, and its great bowl of rose-water was soon set down by the little Moorish lad at Cecil's side.

Whether fatigue really weighted his eyes with slumber, or whether the soothing sedative of the pipe had its influence, he had not sat long in the perfect stillness of the Moor's shop before the narrow view of the street under the awning without was lost to him, the luster and confusion of shadowy hues swam a while before his eyes, the throbbing pain in his temples grew duller, and he slept--the heavy, dreamless sleep of intense exhaustion.
Ben Arsli glanced at him, and bade Musjid be very quiet.