A loose robe of light material from Kashmir thrown around him, Isaacs half sat, half lay, on the soft dark cushions in the corner of his outer room.

His feet were slipperless, Eastern fashion, and his head covered with an embroidered cap of curious make.

By the yellow light of the hanging lamps he was reading an Arabic book, and his face wore a puzzled look that sat strangely on the bold features.

As I entered the book fell back on the cushion, sinking deep into the down by its weight, and one of the heavy gold clasps clanged sharply as it turned.

He looked up, but did not rise, and greeted me, smiling, with the Arabic salutation-- "Peace be with you!" "And with you, peace," I answered in the same tongue.