"The
Zil-I-Sultan Is Here On A Hunting Expedition.
He will start away
early in the morning, and then you can have the guest-room, but not
before.
" Too tired to mind much - indeed, half asleep already - we
groped our way to the stables, where, on the cleanest bundle of straw
I have ever seen - or smelt, for it was pitch dark - in a Persian
post-stable (probably the property of his Highness the Governor of
Ispahan), we were soon in the land of dreams. Had we known that we
were calmly reposing within a couple of feet of the royal charger's
heels, our slumbers might not have been so refreshing. Daylight
disclosed the fact.
The governor and his suite had apparently made a night of it. Although
it was past eight o'clock when we made a start, the prince, his suite,
soldiers, and grooms were none of them stirring, although his _chef_
was busily engaged, with his staff of assistants, preparing a
sumptuous breakfast of kababs, roast meat and poultry, pastry, and
confectionery of various kinds. I could not help envying the man whose
appetite and digestion would enable him to sit down to such a meal
at such an hour. Sherbet, the Shagird from Murchakhar informed us in
confidence, is the favourite drink of the Zil-i-Sultan. I only once
tasted sherbet in Persia, and was somewhat surprised - so lasting are
one's youthful associations - to find it utterly different to the
refreshing but somewhat depressing beverage of my school-days, sold,
if I remember rightly, at twopence a packet.
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