ey waited in vain, intrigued and uneasy.

They heard the harsh voice in which Asad dismissed his followers, and
the clang of the closing gate; and they saw him pacing there alone in
the moonlight, ever in that attitude of dejection.

What had happened? Had he killed them both? Had the girl resisted him to
such an extent that he had lost all patience and in one of those rages
begotten of such resistance made an end of her?

Thus did Fenzileh question herself, and since she could not doubt but
that Sakr-el-Bahr was slain, she concluded that the rest must be as she
conjectured. Yet, the suspense torturing her, she summoned Ayoub and
sent him to glean from Abdul Mohktar the tale of what had passed. In his
own hatred of Sakr-el-Bahr, Ayoub went willingly enough and hoping for
the worst. He returned disappointed, with a tale that sowed dismay in
Fenzileh and Marzak.

Fenzileh, however, made a swift recovery. After all, it was the best
that could have happened. It should not be difficult to transmute that
obvious dejection of Asad's into resentment, and to fan this into a
rage that must end by consuming Sakr-el-Bahr. And so the thing could be
accomplished without jeopardy to her own place at Asad's side. For
it was inconceivable that he should now take Rosamund to his hareem.
Already the fact that she had been paraded with naked face among the
Faithful must in itself have been a difficult obstacle to his pride. But
it was utterly impossible that he could so subject his self-respect to
his desire as to take to himself a woman who had been the wife of his
servant.

Fenzileh saw her way very clearly. It was through Asad's devoutness--as
she herself had advised, though scarcely expecting such rich results as
these--that he had been thwarted by Sakr-el-Bahr. That same devoutness
must further be played upon now to do the rest.

Taking up a flimsy silken veil, she went out to him where he now sat
on the divan under the awning, alone there in the tepid-scented summer
night. She crept to his side with the soft, graceful, questing
movements of a cat, and sat there a moment unheeded almost--such was his
abstraction--her head resting lightly against his shoulder.

"Lord of my soul," she murmured presently, "thou art sorrowing." Her
voice was in itself a soft and soothing caress.

He started, and she caught the gleam of his eyes turned suddenly upon
her.

"Who told thee so?" he asked suspiciously.

"My heart," she answered, her