t ttle purple flo tent of Our Sultan’s grandfatan Süleyman. “er, but for forty years ures edly died t better t for a moment, t’s a pity, a pity!” it the end of an era.

    Darkness aken us, ion. My ,  like a drum, compreely: tan ly entered. I t . I kissed t look he eye.

    or Master Osman any filled me o ness o ts ago been sitting knee to knee looking at pictures. Unbelievable; an ting tentively to er ies I couldn’t make out  attention. I gat lengt t  and proper! My  no longer beat excitedly. At t moment, our eyes met.

    “e, may  in peace,” o me. In my excitement, I missed some of w he was saying.

    “…I e aggrieved. ’s quite a comfort to see t eacures erpiece. ian giaour sees tunned and fear my  is by t’ll be

    necessary to torture all ter miniaturists.”

    “Sovereign Refuge of tan,” said Master Osman. “Perter catcer miniaturists are forced to dra any story in mind.”

    “Only, of course, if t an actual nose,” said Our Sultan shrewdly.

    “My Sultan,” said Master Osman, “to tition by express command of Your onigo visit Your miniaturists, requesting to draest…”

    Our Sultan looked at t said, “Did you ?” t Nizami’s stories of rivalry I like best of all?”

    Some of us said, “e know.” Some said, “.

    “I’m not fond of test of poets or tory about test beters and tan. “I like best test of doctors o th.”

    After ly took leave of us for his evening prayers.

    Later, as ter exiting tes of toest of doctors:One of tors competing i