"For an houri from paradise?
O ye of weak hearts, what is this I hear?
Two thousand rupees ?--for an houri fit to dwell in the zenana of heaven!" A keen-eyed Mohammedan edged closer to the platform.

He stared and sucked in his breath.

He found himself pulled two ways.

He had no money, but he had knowledge.
"Who sells this maiden ?" he asked.
"Mohammed Ghori." "Which is he ?" "He squats there." The Mohammedan stopped and touched the old mahout on the shoulder.
"Call off this sale, and my master will make you rich." The old sinner gingerly felt of the speaker's cotton garb.

"Ah! 'My master' must be rich to dress thee in cotton.