Black Mischief

straggling beard of the prelate. The two great men squatted opposite each other, on either side of the little lamp; outside the guards singing at the camp fire; beyond the stockade the hyenas and a hundred hunting sounds among the rocks. Grave courtesies: “Our little convent resounds with the fame of the great Earl… his prowess in battle and in bed… the thousand enemies slain by his hand… the lions he has speared… his countless progeny…”

“All my life I have counted the days wasted until I saluted the Abbot… his learning and sanctity… his dauntless fidelity to the faith, his chastity… the austerities of his spiritual practices…”

Slowly by a multitude of delicately graded steps the conversation was led to a more practical level. Was there any particular object in the Earl’s visit, other than the infinite joy afforded to all by his presence?

What object could be more compelling than the universal ambition to pay respect to the Abbot and the glorious shrine of the Barren Fig Leaf? But there was, as it so happened, a little matter, a thing scarcely worth a thought, which since he was there, the Earl might mention if it would not be tedious to his host.

Every word of the Earl’s was a jewel, valued be-yond human computation; what was this little mat-ter?

It was an old story… in the days of His Beatitude Gorgias of evil memory… a prisoner, brought to the convent; now an old man… One of whom only high ones might speak… supposing that this man were alive…

“Oh, Earl, you speak of that towards which my lips and ears are sealed. There are things which are not suitable.’

“Abbot, once there comes a time for everything when it must be spoken of.”

“What should a simple monk know of these high affairs. But I have indeed heard it said that in the times of His Beatitude Gorgias of evil memory, there was such a prisoner.”

“Does he still live?”

“The monks of St. Mark the Evangelist guard their treasures well.”

After this all important admission they sat for some time in silence; then the Abbot rose and with ample formalities left his guest to sleep. Both parties felt that the discussion had progressed almost too quickly. There were decencies to be observed.

Negotiations were resumed after Mass next morning and occupied most of the day; before they parted for the night Earl and Abbot had reduced their differences to a monetary basis. Next morning the price was decided and Achon, son of Amurath, legitimate Emperor of Azania, Chief of the Chiefs of Sakuyu, Lord of Wanda and Tyrant of the Seas, was set at liberty.

The event took place without ceremony. After a heavy breakfast of boiled goatsmeat, cheese, olives, smoked mutton, goose and mead—it was one of the numerous feast days of the Nestorian Church—the Earl and the Abbot set out for the hillside unaccompanied except by a handful of slaves. A short climb from the compound brought them to the mouth of a small cave.

“We will wait here. The air is not good.”

Instead they sent in a boy with lantern and ham-mer. From the depths they heard a few muffled words and then a series of blows as a staple was splintered from the rock. Within five minutes the slave had returned leading Achon by a chain attached to his ankle. The prince was completely naked, bowed and shrivelled, stained white hair hung down his shoulders, a stained white beard over his chest; he was blind, toothless and able to walk only with the utmost uncertainty.

The Earl had considered a few words of homage and congratulation. Instead he turned to the Abbot. “He won’t be able to ride.”

“That was hardly to be expected.”

Another night’s delay while a litter was constructed; then on the fifth morning the caravan set out again for Debra-Dowa. Achon swung between the shoulders of four slaves, heavily curtained from curious eyes. Part of the time he slept; at others he crooned quietly to himself, now and then breaking into little moans of alarm at the sudden jolts and lurches in his passage. On the eighth day, under cover of darkness, the little procession slipped by side roads and unfrequented lanes into the city and having delivered his charge to the Patriarch, the Earl hurried out to the French Legation to report to M. Ballon the successful performance of his mission.

Meanwhile Dame Mildred was not enjoying herself at all. Every one seemed to conspire to be unhelpful and disobliging. First there was the intolerable impudence of that wretched boy at the Legation. She had attempted to ring them up every morning and afternoon; at last, when she had almost despaired of effecting connection Mme. Youkoumian had announced that she was through. But it had been a most unsatisfactory conversation. After some minutes with an obtuse native butler (‘probably drinks’ Dame Mildred had decided) the voice had changed to a pleasant, slightly languid English tone.

“I am Dame Mildred Porch. I wish to speak to the Minister.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose you can do that, you know. Can do anything for you?”p>

“Who are you?”

“I’m William.”

“Well I wish to speak to you in particular—it’s about Miss Tin’s trunk.”

“Drunk?”

“Miss Sarah Tin, the organising secretary of the overseas department of the League of Dumb Chums. She has lost her trunk.”

“Ah.”

There was a long pause. Dame Mildred could hear a gramophone being played at the other end of the line.

“Hullo… Hullo…. Are you there?”

Then William’s gentle drawl said: “You know the trouble about the local telephone is that one’s always getting cut off.”