that Rhubaba, the peerless, became the leader of a certain feminine fashion in Tabriz.

I had not know Hassan Ali more than a week when he told me about Rhubaba. He told me in an offhand manner, as if the fair courtezan was nothing to him. I had been asking him something about Persian women and their type of beauty. Then seeing I was interested, he said quickly, “Will you see her, yes?" I said that I had no particular wish to know his disreputable acquaintances.

Hassan Ali turned up the palm of his hand, which is the extremest evidence of impatience that it is possible to drag from him.

"How little you understand us Persians. You should see Rhubaba. Besides being the most beautiful, she is the most important personage in Tabriz at the present moment, Sattar Khan and the Russian Consul-General included. Yes?"

I tried to explain that to visit her ladyship did not synchronize with our English view of the fitness of things.

Again he made the hurried gesture with his palm.

"Is not the whole history of your Europe wound upon the pink fingers of courtezans? Yes? Remember that in the eyes of all good Mahamedans as am I and Rhubaba, that you are unclean, and therefore a thing to disgust. Come, therefore, with me and see the most beautiful woman in all Persia!"

The human estimate of feminine beauty is comparative. If I may be taken as a connoisseur of feminine beauty, I must allow that I was disappointed in the peerless Rhubaba. However, I would not have had Hassan Ali know this for worlds. But I am anticipating. We sauntered down the Rasta Kucha (straight road) as if we had no object but to kill time. The bazaar, that should have been so pal

pitating with life, bore the aspect of a deserted tunnel. Nine-tenths of the shops were boarded up, and where at the corners we should have found hucksters, were now groups of armed men, looking very fierce in their leather cartridge-holding waistcoats. The only familiar sound that we could not escape from was the "Huk, huk"" of the beggars. As we came to our turning Hassan Ali appeased the wretches with a handful of nickel, and we slipped into what appeared to be a blind alley reserved for the refuse of dogs. But it was not blind. A sharp turn to the right, another to the left (Hassan Ali evidently was long familiar with the way), and then we were in a larger passage. A pair of iron-studded gates faced us. Hassan Ali knocked four times. This produced a shuffling behind the gate, and the wooden bolt, innocent of grease, creaked back. Just a crack was opened, and there was some demur before even Hassan Ali's guarantee was accepted.

It was a wonderful change. From the squalid solitude of a narrow passage between mud walls we entered instantly into quite a pretty garden courtyard. The garden was a mass of unkempt scarlet geraniums. There was a tiny cascade in one corner, which, with a soft musical cadence, fed an alabaster tank. The soft sound of the falling water was most soothing in the morning heat. Above the tank balf a dozen poplars raised their slender heads, and their lower branches and the red tiles of the garden walk were alive with white pigeons. The tiled walk led to the double stairway to the house. If it had not been for the semi-wild arrangement of the garden, the frontage of the house would have been gaudy. As it was, the stucco, and the vivid colors of the roughly-enamelled bricks that picked 11 Huk=right (i.e., right to live).

out the door and windows, were in keeping with the whole enclosure. The scene in its unconventional Orientalism was delightfully restful.

We were conducted up the stairs by the gulam, a little unprepossessing oneeyed man, and motioned to wait a minute in the half-verandah, half-open reception hall, which filled the major portion of the front face of the little house. The gulam passed into an inner room. He was gone a minute, and then summoned us to enter. You must not prepare yourself for a scene of Oriental splendor. Rhubaba's boudoir was not like a Turkish Pasha's palace. In fact, the only real splendor centered in her own well-rounded figure. The room was small, lighted by day with a tier of latticed windows, by night with a pendent cut-glass candelabra. The walls were distempered in pink and terra-cotta. The flatness of the coloring was relieved by two pictures,-the one a cheap, colored print of the Shah, taken when he was Vali-Adh at Tabriz; the other a cheap woodcut of Sattar Khan, as the Garibaldi of Persia, which had recently been on sale in the bazaars at five shaïs a copy. The floor was exquisitely carpeted with many rugs, and on two sides of the walls were low divans.

Rhubaba herself was sitting upon a quilted silk mattress, with the stem of a silver-caparisoned hookah parting her full red lips. She bowed gravely as we entered and motioned us to seats upon the most distant divan. The officious gulam, by lumbering in with a chair, emphasized my European gaucheness, and thereby spoiled the picture. There was another visitor. A young Persian was sitting on the foot of the lady's mattress.

But at present our eyes were for none other than Rhubaba the peerless. It may appear strange to you, but in all my long sojourn in Persia, so rigorous is the duty of the veil, that save

for the pinched faces of the little beggar girls this was the first youthful female face that I had seen. How shall

I describe it? I have already committed myself to the truism that all feminine beauty is comparative to the accepted views of the person making the estimate. In her own surroundings, this plump little lady, as she sat with one pink hand resting on the stem of her hookah, possessed a certain fascination even for the foreigner.

Her face was full and round. The natural glow of her warm skin had been slightly heightened with rouge. just as the peculiar beauty of her black Curling eyelashes and heavy eyebrows had been strengthened with a suspicion of antimony. The raven hair was brushed straight down her back, and in front cut into a seductive fringe that lay in one enticing curl across her forehead. But it was in her smile that you realized the real beauty of Rhubaba. All that she possessed was concentrated in that smile. Otherwise she was a plump little woman of a very ripe complexion, but too heavy in figure to be really graceful. According to Hassan Ali, she was sumptuously dressed. To me, who had never before seen Persian ladies except in their outdoor attire, she was quaintly clothed. A chemisette of gauzy silk, trimmed, it seemed, with pendent jewels. A small surcoat of rich brocade, cut so as not to hide the beauties of the bejewelled vest. Wonderful trousers that stood stiffly away from the waist downwards to the knee, and then encircled the leg tightly in many folds. Add to this, neat little white cashmere socks, and a cross-legged pose that would have been unwomanly if it had not been for the stiff breadth of the upper hose, and you have the picture of Rhubaba as I saw her. Except upon her henna-shaded fingers, and upon her vest, she wore no jewels.

I admired the deference with which

Hassan Ali paid her the customary compliments of a Persian greeting. I believe Hassan Ali to be a clever humbug, but he certainly bandied compliments with Rhubaba as if she pos: sessed his whole soul. Having exhausted his greetings, he proceeded to explain my visit. What he said I do not know, but I could see that he was discussing me by the flashes I received from Rhubaba's soft, luminous eyes. Then the conversation turned to the other visitor, and I looked at him for the first time. He was an aristocratic Persian youth, quite fair, with a finelymodelled face.

He was simply

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dressed, but it required no costume to proclaim the fact that he was a Persian aristocrat. Presently Rhubaba invited Hassan Ali to join the Persian youth at the foot of her mattress. accepted with alacrity, and took from her hand the hookah-stem as she daintily presented it. Now I knew that Hassan Ali, as a general rule, did not smoke. But he was too finished a courtier to refuse this special mark of beauty's favor. Presently I, too, was summoned to sit upon the cushion at the little lady's feet. But the honor of the pipe-stem was not extended to

me.

A cigarette was my lot. Then the one-eyed gulam brought in sherbet: a thin sweet drink in long-stemmed bottle-green glasses that might have been East Anglian ware. It was an insipid nectar. We were not, however, left long in undivided possession of Rhubaba's favor. Other visitors arrived. Men in long gray frockcoats, with waists festooned with a double tier of cartridge-belts, who clattered their rifles as they stacked them in the hall. These were rebel leaders. The sons of Mars are always privileged worshippers at the shrine of the daughters of Venus, so at a signal from Hassan Ali we rose to go. Then Rhubaba paid me the first and only individual compliment that I have ever received,

She

or shall receive, at her hands. picked a cigarette out of the tortoiseshell box at her side, lit it at the live coal in the hubble-bubble, and passed it to me. It was a regal little piece of coquetry, and seemed rather to impress than anger her other visitors. They ail rose and bowed politely as we, also bowing, withdrew.

"That cigarette is a reward, yes!" said Hassan Ali when we had again reached the unsavory passages leading to the Rasta Kucha.

"A reward! What for?" I queried. "You see, Rhubaba knows most things in Tabriz, and she knows that your sympathies are with the Nationalists. Yes! All those men who came in were Nationalist leaders, and the gift of that cigarette was to tell them that you were to be trusted. Yes!" Hassan Ali's tiny eyes were twinkling again.

"Hassan Ali," I said, "you are an incorrigible humbug. You know perfectly well that I am strictly non-partisan in this matter. I don't know what lies you have been telling to that little lady, and I am not responsible for any lying statements you may make about me."

"I am a d-d Persian, yes!" he answered with that delightful mock humility that is quite his own and is perfectly irresistible. No wonder he was a favorite with Rhubaba.

"Were those visitors all rebels, Hassan Ali?" I asked presently, as we reached the bazaar.

"Not all. Mirza Hussein, the youth who was there when we first came, is doubtful. Yes!"

"Doubtful?" I answered in surprise. "How can any one be doubtful in the heart of the revolutionary quarter?"

"The house of Rhubaba is neutral ground. Yes!"

"Neutral?" "Yes, neutral. clever in diplomacy.

Rhubaba is very If she had been

born and educated an Englishman, she would have been a Minister. England would not then have signed the AngloRussian Convention. Yes!"

"Hassan Ali," I said with such severity as I could command, "you villain! Why drag that ill-fated Convention into everything?"

"Because it is the cause of everything. Besides, Mirza Hussein is a Russian subject. Yes!"

"A Russian subject?"

"A naturalized Russian subject. Naturalized for commercial or other reasons, yes! If he were not, he would not walk about the bazaars as he does at present. But it is time for my food. Good-bye."

With a limp hand-shake and a pleasant smile Hassan Ali left me. He is an incorrigible rogue, but clever, as well as a delightful companion.

The following morning I found Hassan Ali, all smiles, waiting for me in the American tea-house that was our rendezvous. He met me with the following cryptic assertion

"There is no doubt about Mirza Hussein's loyalty now! Yes!"

"Why, what do you mean, Hassan Ali?" I said, scenting some mystery.

"Why, I will soon have to go to his burial. Yes!"

"What? You don't mean that that nice young fellow we saw yesterday is dead!" I said in genuine horror.

"As dead as the monarchy he was foolish enough to support," answered Hassan Ali benignly. "This d-d Persia is very unhealthy climate just now. I disgust it very much. Mirza Hussein died of fever in his own house this morning. Yes!"

Later on Hassan Ali, having confidence in my discretion-a confidence based chiefly upon my small knowledge of Turkish,"-unfolded to me the fol

12 Turkish, not Persian, is the language of Azerbaijan, of which province Tabriz is the capital.

lowing gruesome history. I give it in my own words, as Hassan Ali's clipped English is apt to become a little tedious if you have too much of it.

Rhubaba, after she opened her doors as a popular favorite in Tabriz, had the whole of the world of Azerbaijan at her small feet. But she was a wilful little lady, and though every monied person, from the Vali Adh to Ferakh Shah the carpet merchant, at one time or another graced her reception-room, yet she was only accessible to wealth on six days in the week. The seventh. Jum'rat, she kept sacred to herself and her real affections. Hence it was that the languishing young poets in their verse extolled Jum'rat before all other nights. It was all part of a cleverlythought-out scheme, for it does not follow that only those that have money have information.

No one precisely knew why Mirza Hussein became a Russian subject. It is true that he spent a year in the Russian military school at Kars, but that was no reason why he should have changed his nationality. He was the son of an ex-governor of Aderbil, who during his term of office had been suspected of being too friendly with the Russian Consul-General. However, at that period that was nothing, the Vali Adh himself was setting the tune. But when times changed and the Constitution was granted by the same Vali Adh, now become Shah, and the Anjuman was established in Tabriz, the leaders of the people became suspicious of Mirza Hussein and his connection. By the ordinary machinery of the Anjuman nothing could be found against him. Then it was that Rhubaba was consulted. Mirza Hussein was a comely youth. Some friend brought him to Rhubaba's receptionroom. Rhubaba accomplished the rest; for what Persian youth could withstand Rhubaba when she made the advances? Mirza Hussein was no fool.

Russian

He was content to bask in Rhubaba's smiles; but he was as secretive as a stone. Rhubaba exercised all her wiles. She petted him; she banished him, while she received his rivals. But all to no avail. Mirza Hussein took all that she gave but vouchsafed no Russian information in return. In her moments of solitude Rhubaba bit her pink nails in her chagrin and annoyance.

Then, as the world knows, the deluge came. The Government party, Russian-backed, held Devachi; the Rebels held Khiban and Amra Khuz. Both parties had modern cannon and ammunition, and neither knew how to use them. One morning, without previous warning, the Royalists began to burst shrapnel with perfect accuracy over the Rebel barricades. How had they learned this modern art of which yesterday they were ignorant? At last the Rebels remembered that Mirza Hussein had been in the military school at Kars, that he was a Russian subject, and the son of a Royalist. Moreover, one was found who said that he had been seen in Devachi. The accusation was not brought. That is not the Persian way. But Sattar Khan, the rebel leader, sent for Mirza Hussein and asked him to set his fuzes for him. The young patrician turned up the palm of his hand and replied that he was sorry, but he did not know the fashion of shell fuzes. At Kars he had been a cavalry cadet, and they learned nothing about such things.

But the shells from Devachi still continued to burst with disconcerting accuracy. If Mirza Hussein had not been a Russian subject his life would not have been worth a minute's purchase. It was about this time that Rhubaba forgave Mirza Hussein and took him back to her bosom. He was glad to return, for he was fond of Rhubaba, and, besides, Rhubaba's Rebel clientèle were of service to him.

The morning that I saw him on Rhubaba's divan was the first Jum'rat since he had been received back into favor. As to what happened after we leftthat is to say, what happened during the night-we can only surmise. It is probable that Rhubaba is herself responsible for the crime. That when Mirza Hussein, received into her confidence, slept with his head pillowed in her lap, she, with her own pink hands, drove the thin point of the Caucasian knife through his eyeball far back into his brain.

It was before daybreak that they knocked at Mirza Hussein's father's house, and told him that his son was lying dead in the courtezan's house by the bazaar, and suggested, if the exGovernor wished to avoid the scandal of the discovery that his son had met his death in such a place, that it behooved him to have the body removed before daylight.

Thus it was that Mirza Hussein died of a fever in his father's house, and that, by a curious coincidence, the Royalist gunners at the same time ceased to fire effective shrapnel into the Khïban barricades. As for Rhubaba, her reception-hall is neutral ground. It is always full: only you will find more Rebels than Royalists there.

IN THE SHADOW OF THE BLUE MOSQUE. I went down to the Khïban quarter, ostensibly to see the Rebel barricades erected there. Really the object of my visit was the Blue Mosque. Now Lord Curzon, quoting Taxier,-because he himself never was at Tabriz,-says the Blue Mosque "is the chief work of Persian, perhaps of all Oriental, architecture." It certainly is a magnificent ruin. So magnificent that, although it has been in débris for generations, yet the dignity of its architecture remains. It has now been decided that the Blue Mosque was built by Shah Jehan in 1464, though some authorities main