oubt
thou hast considered that, and in some dark Sicilian way considered too
how to provide against it. But the cost--hast thou counted that? What
will Asad say to thee when he learns how thou hast thwarted him?"

"What do I care for that?" she cried in sudden fury, her gestures
becoming a little wild. "She will be at the bottom of the harbour by
then with a stone about her neck. He may have me whipped. No doubt he
will. But 'twill end there. He will require me to console him for his
loss, and so all will be well again."

At last he had drawn her, pumped her dry, as he imagined. Indeed,
indeed, he thought, he had been right to say she was not subtle. He had
been a fool to have permitted himself to be intrigued by so shallow, so
obvious a purpose. He shrugged and turned away from her.

"Depart in peace, O Fenzileh," he said. "I yield her to none--be his
name Asad or Shaitan."

His tone was final, and her answer seemed to accept at last his
determination. Yet she was very quick with that answer; so quick that he
might have suspected it to be preconceived.

"Then it is surely thine intent to wed her." No voice could have been
more innocent and guileless than was hers now. "If so," she went on, "it
were best done quickly, for marriage is the only barrier Asad will not
overthrow. He is devout, and out of his deep reverence for the Prophet's
law he would be sure to respect such a bond as that. But be very sure
that he will respect nothing short of it."

Yet notwithstanding her innocence and assumed simplicity--because of
it, perhaps--he read her as if she had been an open book; it no longer
mattered that her face was veiled.

"And thy purpose would be equally well served, eh?" he questioned her,
sly in his turn.

"Equally," she admitted.

"Say 'better,' Fenzileh," he rejoined. "I said thou art not subtle. By
the Koran, I lied. Thou art subtle as the serpent. Yet I see whither
thou art gliding. Were I to be guided by thine advice a twofold purpose
would be served. First, I should place her beyond Asad's reach, and
second, I should be embroiled with him for having done so. What could
more completely satisfy thy wishes?"

"Thou dost me wrong," she protested. "I have ever been thy friend. I
would that...." She broke off suddenly to listen. The stillness of the
night was broken by cries from the direction of the Bab-el-Oueb. She
ran swiftly to the parapet whence the gate was to be seen and leaned far
out.

"Look, lo