I sent for him, and requested him to tell me his story, as I might perhaps be able to trace the murderers.
He did so, and a Persian writer took it down while I listened with all the coldness of a magistrate who wanted merely to learn facts and have nothing whatever to do with feelings.

This is his story literally: 'I reside in my hut by the side of the road a mile and [a] half from the town, and live upon the bounty of travellers, and the people of the surrounding villages.

About six weeks ago, I was sitting by the side of my shrine after saying prayers, with my only son, about ten years of age, when a man came up with his wife, his son, and his daughter, the one a little older, and the other a little younger than my boy.

They baked and ate their bread near my shrine, and gave me flour enough to make two cakes.

This I prepared and baked.