airly. Yes, Allah is great.
I will only make my profit on her. The price shall be liberal."

Then Laurence Stanninghame, the renegade, the man who had thrown all
considerations of duty and feeling to the winds as so much lumber, so
much meaningless conventionality, felt as shocked and disgusted as ever
he could have done in his most foolish days, what time illusions were as
vivid, as golden as ever. But, remembering himself, he replied in an
even tone:

"No sum will purchase her, Rahman ben Zuhdi. Were I dying at this
moment, and large wealth could bring me fifty years more of life, I
would not sell her. All that the world contains could not purchase her,
for she has restored me to life at the peril of her own, again and
again,--nay, more, has restored me to that which alone renders life a
possession of any value. I have dealt in slaves, but this is a daughter
of a race of kings.

"The People of the Spider," said the Arab thoughtfully, flashing a
curious glance at Lindela, who stood some little way apart. "They grow
their women fine if they are all as this one. Well, I did but make thee
the offer, my brother; but if a man values anything above gold, all the
gold in the world will not induce him to part therewith. Fare thee well.
We part friends."

"As friends indeed do we part, O Rahman," replied Laurence. And they
resumed their respective ways.

As time went on, Lindela's manner seemed to undergo a change--her
spirits to flag. Was it the fearful malarial heat of the low-lying
forest country, often swampy, which was affecting her? thought Laurence
with concern. He himself was inured to it, but this daughter of a
healthy upland race, accustomed to the breezy, equable climate of her
mountain home--on her the steaming heat of the rotting vegetation and
marshy soil might conceivably be beginning to tell.

They were resting one day during the noontide heat. No burning rays from
the outside sun could scorch here, for the place was dim with thick
foliage and creepers trailing from the limbs of great forest trees. Both
had fallen asleep.

Suddenly Lindela started up. A sharp wringing pain, seeming to begin on
the left shoulder, went through her frame. It spread--down her
arm--then through to the other shoulder--down the other arm. What was
it? A cramp caught from the treacherous chill of the humid soil?
Perhaps. Well, it would soon pass. Then Laurence began to stir in his
sleep. The sight made her forget her pain. He m