“When I saw them,” my host continued, “the two women seemed as friendly as sisters, and Isaac was not yet born.  At that time it was considered, of course, that Ishmael was Abraham’s heir.  Certainly he was a much finer man than Isaac, with whom I became acquainted a long time afterward.  There were some very beautiful women at the court of Solomon.  One of these was Balkis, the famous Queen of Sheba.”

“Did you ever meet Cleopatra?” I interrupted.

“I never saw her,” was the answer, “but, from what I have heard, I do not think I should have cared for her if I had seen her asleep.  What might have happened had I seen her awake is quite another matter.  I have noticed that women grow more beautiful as the world grows older, and men grow taller and better developed.  You would consider me, I think, a man of average size; but I tell you that in my early life I was exceptionally tall, and I have no doubt it was my stature and presence to which I largely owed my preferment at the court of Alexander.  I was living in Spain toward the close of the tenth century, when I married the daughter of an Arabian physician, who was a wonderfully beautiful woman.  She was not dark, like the ordinary Moorish women.  In feature and form she surpassed any creation of the Greek sculptors, and I have been in many of their workshops, and have seen their models.  This lady lived longer than any other wife I had.  She lived so long, in fact, that when we left Cordova we both thought it well that she should pass as my mother.  She was one of the few wives to whom I told my story.  It did not shock her, for she believed her father to be a miracle-worker, and she had faith in many strange things.  Her great desire was to live as long as I should, and I think she believed that this might happen.  She died at the age of one hundred and fifteen, and was lively and animated to the very last.  My first American wife was a fine woman, too.  She was a French creole, and died fifteen years ago.  We had no children.”

[Illustration:  “‘When we left Cordova.’”]

“It strikes me,” I said suddenly, “that you must understand a great many languages—­you speak so much of living with people of different nations.”

“It would be impossible,” he answered, “unless I were void of ordinary intelligence, to live as long as I have, and not become a general linguist.  Of course I had to learn the languages of the countries I visited, and as I was always a student, it delighted me to do so.  In fact, I not only studied, but I wrote.  When the Alexandrian library was destroyed, fourteen of my books were burned.  When I was in Italy with my first American wife, I visited the museum at Naples, and in the room where the experts were unrolling the papyri found in Pompeii, I looked over the shoulder of one of them, and, to my amazement, found that one of the rolls was an account-book of my own.  I had been a broker in Pompeii, and these were the records of moneys I had loaned, on interest, to various merchants and tradespeople.  I was always fond of dealing in money, and at present I am a broker in Wall street.  During the first crusades I was a banker in Genoa, and lent large sums to the noble knights who were setting forth for Jerusalem.”