Chapter 7 - Ramin and I

DOWN in the little garden of the house I had a few moments alone with Ramin. At some time this garden had been a charming, secluded spot. Indeed, except for a latticed window above, it was overlooked from only one point: the gallery of the minaret. But neglect had played havoc with the place.

The orange trees flourished—indeed, were in full blossom—and a perfect cloak of bougainvillea overhung the balcony below the latticed window. But the flower borders were thickets of weeds and a stone cistern in which a little fountain had long ceased to play was coated with slime and no more than a breeding place for mosquitoes.

“I don’t know what it is about Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” said Ramin. “But I have never experienced such a sense of relief in my life as when I came into that room to-day and found him there.”

“I know,” I replied, squeezing him reassuringly: “it’s the sterling quality of the man. All the same, I shan’t feel happy until we’re clear of Ispahan.”

“Nor shall I, Shan. If only uncle weren’t so infernally mysterious. What on earth are we staying on here for?”

“I know no more than you do, Ramin. What was the object of this afternoon’s expedition? I’m quite in the dark about it!”

“I’m nearly as bad,” he confessed. “But at least I can tell you where we went. We went to Solomon Ishak. You know—the funny old jeweller?”

“Solomon Ishak is one of the greatest mysteries of Ispahan. But I understand he gets hold of some very rare antique pieces. Probably the chief is negotiating a deal.”

“I don’t think so. I had to take along the negatives of about forty photographs, and uncle left me wandering about that indescribable, stuffy shop for more than an hour while he remained locked in an inner room with old Solomon.”

“And what became of the photographs?”

“He had them with him but brought them out at the end of the interview. They are back here now.”

“That may explain the mystery,” I said reflectively. “The photographs were of the relics of the Prophet, I take it?”

Ramin nodded.

“The workmanship on the hilt of the sword has defied even the chief’s knowledge,” I added. “He probably wanted Solomon Ishak’s opinion but didn’t care to risk taking the sword itself.”

Ramin slipped a slender arm about my neck and snuggled down against my shoulder.

“Oh, Shan!” he whispered. “I have never felt so homesick in my life.”

“Ramin,” I whispered, “when we get to some place a little nearer civilization, will you . . .?”

He made no reply. As for the chief, I had known for a long time past that he was thoroughly enjoying the situation.

Had Ramin and I openly become lovers, I am convinced he wouldn’t have turned a hair. He was a wonderful old pagan, and his profound disrespect for ritual in any form had led to some awkward moments—awkward, that is, for me, but apparently enjoyed by Sir Lionel.

And at the moment that these thoughts were crossing my mind his great voice came from the window above: “Break away, there!” he roared. “There’s more serious work afoot!”

I jumped up—my blood was tingling—and turned angrily. But in the very act I met Ramin’s upcast glance. My mood changed. He was convulsed with laughter; and: “The old ruffian!” he whispered.

“Come hither, my puritan friend,” Sir Lionel continued. “Two cavaliers would have speech with thee!”