Was he converted?
was it real?
"Yes--I think I am," he replied in the same mechanical monotonous accent.
I shook myself, drank some sherbet, and kicked off one shoe impatiently.
Was I dreaming?
or had I been speaking aloud, really putting the questions he answered so quickly and appositively?
Pshaw! a coincidence.
I called the servant and ordered my hookah to be refilled.

Isaacs sat still, immovable, lost in thought, looking at his toes; an expression, almost stupid in its vacancy, was on his face, and the smoke curled slowly up in lazy wreaths from his neglected narghyle.
"You are converted then at last ?" I said aloud.

No answer followed my question; I watched him attentively.
"Mr.Isaacs!" still silence, was it possible that he had fallen asleep?
his eyes were open, but I thought he was very pale.

His upright position, however, belied any symptoms of unconsciousness.
"Isaacs! Abdul Hafiz! what is the matter!" He did not move.

I rose to my feet and knelt beside him where he sat rigid, immovable, like a statue.
Kiramat Ali, who had been watching, clapped his hands wildly and cried, "Wah! wah! Sahib margya!"-- "The lord is dead." I motioned him away with a gesture and he held his peace, cowering in the corner, his eyes fixed on us.