nded,onadistantplacebeyondthewallsoftheTreasury.

    “These,rehestyleoftheoldmastersofHerat,whereinHüsrev,burningmadlywithlove,rideshishorsetothefootofShirin’ssummerpaladwaits!”

    Perhapshe’dnowgoontodescribethatpictureasifregamelancholypoemeulogizingtheblindnessoftheoldmasters.“Mygreatmaster,mydearsire,”onastrangeimpulse,Iinterruptedhim,“whatIwanttostareatforalleternityismybeloved’sdelicateface.It’sbeenthreedayssincewewed.I’vethoughtinglyfortwelveyears.ThesewhereinShirinfallsihHüsrevafterseeinghispictureremindsmeofherthanher.”

    TherewasawealthofexpressiononMasterOsman’sface,curiosityperhaps,butithadtodoherwithmystorynorwiththebloodybattlesebeforehim.Heseemedtobeexpeggoodnewsinwhichhecouldgraduallytakefort.WhenIwassurehewasn’tlookingatme,Iabruptlygrabbedtheplumeneedleandwalkedaway.

    InadarkpartofthethirdoftheTreasuryrooms,theotihs,therewasaerclutteredwithhundredseclockssentaspresentsfromFrankishkingsandsns;wheoppedw,astheyusuallydidwithinashorttime,theyweresetasidehere.Withdrawingtothisroom,IcarefullyscrutihehatMasterOsmanclaimedBihzadhadusedtoblindhimself.

    Bythereddaylightfilteringinside,reflegoffthegs,crystalfaddiamondsofthedustyandbrokenclocks,thegoldentipoftheneedle,coatedinkishliquid,occasionallyshimmered.HadthelegendaryMasterBihzadactuallyblindedhimselfwiththisimplement?HadMasterOsmahesameterriblethingtohimself?TheexpressionofanimpishMoro,thesizeofafingerandcolorfullypaitachedtothemeismofohelargeclocksseemedtosay“Yes!”Evidently,whentheclockwas