Again on the morrow there was mention of mange. They had slept on their labour, and the scheme was rounding out. “Yet, my dear, it is imperfect; and our nature stops not short of perfection. We grieve to see you thus satisfied to snatch the merely opportune. It is an English fault.” I dropped into their vein. “O Nesib,” said I, “and O Zeki, will not perfection, even in the least of things, entail the ending of this world? Are we ripe for that? When I am angry I pray God to swing our globe into the fiery sun, and prevent the sorrows of the not-yet-born: but when I am content, I want to lie forever in the shade, till I become a shade myself.” Uneasily they shifted the talk to stud farms, and on the sixth day the poor camel died. Very truly, “Because,” as Zeki pointed out, “you did not dress her.” Auda, Nasir, and the rest of us kept our beasts going by constant care. We could, perhaps, just stave the mange off till we should reach the camp of some well-provided tribe, and be able to procure medicines, with which to combat the disease wholeheartedly.