a girl of eighteen summers; her features very
Greek, her complexion radiant, hair dark as night, and eyes of the
colour of the violet. Her beautiful countenance, however, was at this
moment nearly shrouded by her veil, although no one could possibly
behold it, excepting her attendant, younger even than herself, and fresh
and fair as a flower.

They were hurrying along a wooden gallery, which led, behind the upper
part of the divan occupied by the travellers, to the great square
central tower of the quadrangle, which we have already noticed, and as
the truth must always, or at least eventually, come out, it shall not
be concealed that, availing themselves of a convenient, perhaps
irresistible position, the fair fugitives had peeped into the chamber,
and had made even minute observations on its inhabitants with impunity.
Suddenly, Fakredeen rising from his seat, a panic had seized them and
they hurried away.

The gallery led to a flight of steps, and the flight of steps into
the first of several chambers without decoration, and with no other
furniture than an Eastern apartment always offers, the cushioned seat,
which surrounds at least two-thirds of the room. At length they entered
a small alcove, rudely painted in arabesque, but in a classic Ionic
pattern; the alcove opened into a garden, or rather court of myrtles
with a fountain. An antelope, an Angora cat, two Persian greyhounds,
were basking on the sunny turf, and there were many birds about, in rude
but capacious cages.

'We are safe,' said the lady, dropping on the divan; 'I think we must
have been seen.'

'That was clearly impossible,' said Cypros.

'Well, we must be seen at last,' said the lady. 'Heigho! I never shall
be able to receive them, if my heart beat so.'

'I would let them wait a few days, sweet lady,' said Cypros, 'and then
you would get more used to them.'

'I shall never be more used to them. Besides, it is rude and
inhospitable not to see them. Yesterday there was an excuse: they were
wearied, or I had a right to suppose they were, with their travelling;
and to-day, there ought to be an excuse for not receiving them to-day.
What is it, Cypros?'

'I dare say they will be quite content, if to-day you fix the time when
you will receive them, sweet lady.'

'But I shall not be content, Cypros. Having seen them once, I wish to
see them again, and one cannot always be walking by accident in the
gallery.'

'Then I would see them to-day, sweet