KhodadÂd Khan, TarkhÂn, sate at the head of his supper cloth, with the dazed look of one who has taken drugs in his eyes. And in truth he had drugged himself body and soul to the uttermost. He had passed from one pleasure to another, and all the while he had raged inwardly at the necessity for seeking yet further forgetfulness; since after all what had he to forget? Only the shock of seeing deformity; for the rest was dead as the past years which had contained it. And yet he could not forget! Even as he had come hither to this last stimulant to jaded appetite--an al fresco entertainment out in the desert stretches beyond the city, where all the wallowing wickedness of humanity would show up the more alluringly vicious against that pure background of solitude and silence--even then he had shrunk back as from a snake before a glimpse that had come to him in the bazaar of a dead face. It could not be the same girl from whom he had turned horror-struck that morning, for his practised eye noted in a second all those graceful contours of budding womanhood, which showed above the shallow coffin. Besides, why should she die? He had barely kissed her, and--he laughed cynically, as the thought came to him--where was the woman who objected to a kiss, who was the worse for it? Were they not made for it?

He flung his arm round Yasmeena who lolled on the cushions beside him and kissed the heart-shaped curve of skin which her swelling, filmy bodice left exposed below her dimpled chin. She slapped him lightly on the cheek and the company laughed at his frown.

quoted one of the guests. "My lord is over hasty. Our stomachs are not yet satisfied, though by the twelve ImÂms, this saffron pillau of tender chicken filters fast to my vitals." He leered at Siyah Yamin, who threw up her dainty little head disdainfully.

"Keep thy spiced sentiment to thyself, fool," she replied archly, "I desire no forced feeling of fowl."

The laugh at her retort ran round boisterously, and even KhodadÂd joined in it. But it was a mirthless laugh. Still as the hours went on the fun waxed fast and furious, and the stars above must have been glad of the widespread square canopy of tent which hid some of the doings of man from High Heaven. It was well on into the night ere the first guest, excusing himself, jingled in his palanquin back cityward. So, by ones and twos, the party dispersed until KhodadÂd was left alone looking contemptuously down at Mirza IbrahÎm, whose senses had deserted him in the long orgie, and who lay helpless amid wine cups, torn shreds of muslin, and all the indescribable beastliness of uncontrolled amusement.

"Take the fool home, slaves," said the TarkhÂn thickly, "And bring a bed here. I stop; the night air will cool my brain."

So in the midst of all the refuse of vicious humanity, they set a dirty string bed, and covered it with satin quilts. As he lay on it he formed fit matching to its hidden squalor.

It was now the hour before the false dawn; that hour of slumber even for wickedness and wrong. The servants, outwearied by long ministering to every whim of their masters, were soon asleep even while they simulated watchfulness.

But KhodadÂd lay awake. Half-drugged, half-drunk though he was, his nerves tingled, he started at the least sound. Possibly some vague unacknowledged fear of what the darkness might bring had lain at the bottom of his resolution to sleep were he was, where none could know of his presence; yet everything disturbed him. A prowling jackal, a mere noiseless shadow in the moonlight, made him sit up and watch till it had slunk away.

How still, how horribly still the desert was! One could almost hear the soft patter of the birds' feet which would leave delicate tracery upon the sand for the dawn to discover. And then his mind flew back to another still, hot night in the past. Surely it must have been about this time of year? Perchance this was the very night. Was it so? His brain, reluctant yet insistent, traced back the past. Nay! it could not be--and yet-- Yet it was before that. Aye! and after that----

And by an odd chance, beyond a low thicket of caper bushes that bounded the desert to one side of the scene of past orgie, lay the little cemetery where ZarÎfa slept so soundly. He did not know this but he lay awake, thinking of her.

Ye Gods! Why could he not sleep? What had he to fear; a TarkhÂn in a strange country? Nothing. On the morrow he would be himself; free of all things--free to do as he chose.

And so suddenly with the comfort of the thought came slumber.

Was it for an instant or for an hour? He sate up, the sweat starting from him with causeless fear, to look about him.

He could see nothing. All was darkness itself. Then a sense of constriction about his forehead made him raise his hands to feel if aught were there.

God and his Prophet! He was blindfolded! He was on his feet in a second, but even as he rose, strong hands of iron grip closed round his and despite a wild struggle, he stood helpless, his arms fast pinioned to his sides.

"What is't?" he asked putting unfelt boldness into his voice; it sounded thick almost unintelligible.

"DalÎl, TarkhÂn of the Royal House, thou art summoned to the Last Assize of thy Peers."

The answer came from close; so close that it seemed to knell in his ear as if it came from inside himself, and it brought a sudden throb of purely animal dread to his heart. But he essayed a laugh. This was not real; it was but a disordered dream, a nightmare due to the excesses of the day. His peers? Here in a strange land where were they?

"Wherefore?" he asked.

The answer was too swift for him to judge of the quality of his own voice; the other was resonant though still curiously personal, curiously close to him.

"Because the measure of thine iniquities is full at last! Mount the White Horse, and ride bravely to judgment, as thou hast ridden bravely to sin."

He felt himself half-forced forward, half-willingly yielding to unseen pressure, and he told himself again it was but a dream. The sooner through with it, the sooner to wake; it could not go on forever.

The warmth of the horse's body felt against him, brought another throb of fear. He heard its screaming neigh. Was it indeed, the TarkhÂn's White Stallion of Death which he bestrode? Ah! if he could but see, could but move!

But his feet were fast bound beneath the warm breathing belly, his arms were close pinioned to his side. For an instant he thought of shrieking aloud--it might at least wake him; then something--perhaps pride of race and that admonition to bear himself bravely--held him back from cries.

Whither were they taking him? The way seemed endless, and he fought for bare breath between the mad throbbings of his heart; his very lips tingled and smarted as the life blood pulsed irregularly through them. Would that ceaseless strain and relaxation of muscle as the horse galloped on and on never end? Must he always wait and wait. For what? Something worse perhaps.

"Halt!"

He gave a convulsive gasp. The whole universe seemed to stand still. So an awful and intolerable silence settled down on all things.

"Who are ye!" he cried at last in desperation, and his voice rang out strident yet quavering, like an ill-tuned violin.

A low, reverberating roll of kettledrums was the only answer, and an uncontrollable shiver shook him, replying to the shudder with which they filled the air.

"Who are ye?"

This time the cry had a wail in it; but once again that roll of kettledrums was the only answer.

"Who are ye?"

It was a mere whisper, hoarse, half-choked; but this time a voice came instant, clear, in reply.

"Unbind his eyes, heralds, and let him see those who judge him."

The flood of moonlight seemed at first to blind him, and even after his eyes recovered sight a mistiness, a vagueness rested on all things. And yet he saw all things; aye! and recognised them, not from personal experience, for the Last Assize was even in those days fast becoming legendary, but from the racial experience which he could not escape.

Aye! Beneath him was the White Stallion of Death standing square upon the square of white cloth, whose purpose sent a shiver of horror through him. Those were the heralds masked, veiled, who rode on black horses beside him, and at their feet curled up, cowering like loathsome reptiles, he could see the two executioners, their long fingers clutching--at what?

Not a sword or a dagger. No! He knew what they held and with a wild hope of pardon, his strained eyes sought, beyond these nearer things, the semicircle of faces before which he stood. The moonbeams showed them clear yet blurred. How like himself they were, these chieftains of the BarlÂs clan! And whence had they come? From the grave surely, some of them, or were they only simulacra? Was it indeed the race which sate in judgment on him? The race; and so himself. Ah! in that case what hope--what chance of life had he, DalÎl?

And then suddenly there leaped to clearness the figure which centred the wide semicircle of dim countenances.

It was dressed in regal robes, it wore the emeralds of Sinde, and there was no mistaking the face which stared at him with cold implacable justice.

"PayandÂr!" he gasped--"hast come back from the dead to kill me?"

"From a life that has been a death I come to judgment," was the reply. "Chiefs of the BarlÂs clan, assembled for this high purpose, listen! Listen to the record of this man's iniquities and say if the cup be full."

It was a long record, yet DalÎl's memory gave assent to all, and as each crime was counted a surging murmur of acquiescence came from those listening faces. It seemed to deaden the miserable man's senses, for after a time he forgot all things but that one accusing figure in its royal robes, and the hard, cold, accusing voice.

"It is but eight," he muttered hoarsely, "no TarkhÂn can be condemned by eight----"

"Listen O Chief of the BarlÂs clan," interrupted the accuser, "to the ninth crime. Yestermorn he did of vile licence kill with his lustful kiss----"

KhodadÂd essayed a mocking laugh.

"With a kiss? What then? Lucky for any maiden to be so honoured by a TarkhÂn; so much the more lucky for such a devil's mash of deformity."

"His own daughter," rang out the charge, harder, colder, crueller. "His daughter by the Rosebud of Love which he dishonoured. His daughter whom he called into being without cause, when he defiled her mother!"

Ah! now he knew! now he understood why--the thought came to DalÎl even as he fought blindly against it.

"Thou liest!" he murmured thickly. "She was PayandÂr's spawn. He----"

"He is the accuser," returned the voice calmly, "and by his right of TarkhÂn he swears it before the Last Assize. Speak, chiefs of the BarlÂs clan, doth this man deserve sentence?"

Once again that surging assent mingled with the rolling of kettledrums, filled DalÎl's ears; but through it he heard the words:

"Executioners! open the veins of his neck and let the BarlÂs blood go free of his vile body. Let him bleed to death while I, the king, mourn the spilling of good BarlÂs blood."

Then from all around seemed to arise a low wailing, backed still by that quivering roll of the kettledrums. The veiled figures rose slowly; a blackness rose also obliterating all save awful fear. Ah! he knew what was coming! He knew. Was that the keen prick of a long lancet at his throat? Was that a warm stream trickling, trickling?

Oh! ye gods and devils! it was time to wake!

"OhÍ my son! OhÍ my brother!" The long-drawn wail rose louder and louder!

Wake! Wake! Wake! What a hideous dream it was. She was not--she could not be his----

An awful cry, half-choked, broke from him. It was bloodwarm blood--his own blood caressing his bosom, nestling at his heart ...

Wake! Wake!

"OhÍ! my brother! OhÍ! my son!"

Something surged in his brain. He heard no more.

* * * * *

It was dawn.

The delicate tracery of the desert birds' feet showed close up to the edge of the ruffled carpets whereon lay--hideously confused--all the indescribable refuse of sensuality which the mind has enabled humanity to bring to bear upon its pleasures. But he who had called all the past lust and licence into being, still slept peacefully on the squalid string bed beneath the rich satin quilts.

A servant or two wakened and yawned; then, seeing his services unrequired slept again. So, swiftly, the sun rose with a ruffling wind that followed the footsteps of the birds, in circling eddies, and passed on, leaving the sand without a sign of passage on it.

"He sleeps long," said one, a servant.

"Let him sleep," grumbled another, "when he wakes it will be but another service of sin for him and us."

But others needed the quick wit and relentless purpose of KhodadÂd; so almost ere dawn had passed to day, two or three horsemen came galloping from the city intent on finding help from the arch-conspirator.

"God and His Prophet!" faltered Mirza IbrahÎm shrinking back from the shoulder on which he had laid an awakening hand, "he is dead!"

Dead and cold. There was no sign of violence upon him; only on his neck two blue marks, mere signs as it were, of scratches about half an inch long.

"He has died in the night," said GhiÂss Beg with a shiver. "No one is to blame. God send he had time for a prayer."

But Mirza IbrahÎm clutched the complacent Lord High Treasurer by the arm and gasped:

"Look! Look!"

In front of the tent just beyond the ruffled carpet lay a square of white cloth and on it as if in blood, lay clear, distinct, the red marks of a horse's hoofs.

"'Tis the sign," he whispered, his face ashen gray. "The sign that judgment has been passed by his peers."