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CHAPTER XV SALAMAN
 A solitary1 camel came into Mekran by the north gate, driven by a lean Baluch in a soiled yellow burnous and bearing upon its back a palanquin with curtains of faded silk. It ambled2 through the streets and knelt at the portals of the khan’s palace, where the curtains were drawn3 and an aged4 priest cautiously descended5.  
Before the entrance was drawn up a company of warriors6 of the Tribe of Agot, who solemnly saluted7 the new arrival and pressed backward that he might pass within.
 
The priest paused to note their splendid dress and brightly polished weapons, eyeing them with the simplicity9 of a child viewing his first pageant10. His countenance11 was strangely sweet and guileless, although not lacking in dignity, and his white garb12 was of spotless purity. But above his breast—the focus of every eye of the true believer—hung suspended a jewelled star that proclaimed him the Grand Mufti of the Sunnite faith. No wonder the awed14 warriors pressed backward before the great Salaman, who had come all the way from his retreat at Takkatu to visit their khan.
 
Passing through the courtyard and up the marble stairway the venerable priest stopped often to mark the luxurious15 furnishings of the palace. The building itself was scarcely equal to his own monastery16, but the splendor17 of its fittings was in strong contrast with the simplicity to which he was accustomed. The slave Memendama preceded him, pausing at every turn to salam before his master’s guest.
 
The ante-rooms were filled with sirdars and captains of the tribes, all resplendent in attire18, as befitted the courtiers of a great khan. Within one alcove19 sat Agahr the Vizier, in deep converse20 with a group of greybeards who were evidently officers of rank. These also rose to bow before the priest, and Salaman stopped to read the vizier’s countenance with curious intentness. When he had passed Agahr looked after him with a troubled face, and the others, exchanging significant glances, left him and walked away.
 
At last Memendama stopped beside a portiere which he drew aside to allow the priest to enter. It was the private apartment of the khan.
 
Salaman, stepping within the small room, gave a shrewd glance around and allowed the semblance21 of a smile to flit across his grave features. The place was well lighted with high windows, although the afternoon already waned22, but the walls and floor were bare and the furniture almost severe in character. Beside a wooden bench knelt the Khan, his head resting upon his outstretched arms and his body without motion.
 
The priest’s glance was almost tender as he softly crossed the chamber23 and seated himself within the embrasure of a window. The silence remained unbroken.
 
After a time the Khan moved and raised his head, fixing his eyes upon the white-robed priest. There was no start of surprise in his gaze. Very gently he arose, knelt again before Salaman and kissed with humility24 the hem8 of the priestly robe.
 
“You are here, my father,” he said, “and I am grateful.”
 
The priest laid his hand upon the bowed head.
 
“All is well, my son,” he answered. “Allah and the Prophet have given you guidance, and your days are righteous.” He paused a moment and then added: “We are pleased with Ahmed Khan.”
 
Again there followed a period of prolonged silence.
 
Then the young man asked:
 
“You know of my troubles, father?”
 
“Yes, dear Hafiz. The American girl is here in Mekran.”
 
“Is it not strange that she has come from across the world to the one place where I have found refuge?”
 
“The ways of Allah are good ways,” responded the priest, “and He holds the strands
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