There! Achmet the Astrologer lies in a heap." He had deftly taken off his flowing cloak, his long, silvery beard and hair, and flung them together in a corner, and now he stood in the center of the room, a stalwart young fellow of thirty or thereabouts, with great Spanish eyes and profuse curling hair of an inky blackness.
"Let me but wash this white enamel off my face," he said, giving himself a shake, "and Pietro is himself again.

Sir Jasper would hardly recognize Achmet, I fancy, if he saw him now." He walked to a shelf on which was placed a wash-bowl and towel, and plunged his face and head into the cold water.

Five minutes' vigorous splashing and rubbing, and he emerged, his pallid face brown as a berry, his black hair in a snarl of crisp curls.
"And now to satisfy the inner man," he said, walking over to the pot, seizing a wooden spoon, and drawing up a cricket.

"My tramp of last night and this morning has made me famously hungry, Zara." "And the hare soup is good," said Zara.

"While you breakfast, Pietro, I will go to mother.