ems
also to be a title?"

"Yes," I answered. "Allan."

"--O--Allan. Tell me of these," she went on quickly, indicating my
companions with a sweep of her slender hand, "for they do not speak
Arabic, I think. Or stay, I will tell you of them and you shall say if
I do so rightly. This one," and she nodded towards Robertson, "is a man
bemused. There comes from him a colour which I see if you cannot, and
that colour betokens a desire for revenge, though I think that in his
time he has desired other things also, as I remember men always did from
the beginning, to their ruin. Human nature does not change, Allan, and
wine and women are ancient snares. Enough of him for this time. The
little yellow one there is afraid of me, as are all of you. That is
woman's greatest power, although she is so weak and gentle, men are
still afraid of her just because they are so foolish that they cannot
understand her. To them after a million years she still remains the
Unknown and to us all the Unknown is also the awful. Do you remember the
proverb of the Romans that says it well and briefly?"

I nodded, for it was one of the Latin tags that my father had taught me.

"Good. Well, he is a little wild man, is he not, nearer to the apes from
whose race our bodies come? But do you know that, Allan?"

I nodded again, and said,

"There are disputes upon the point, Ayesha."

"Yes, they had begun in my day and we will discuss them later. Still, I
say--nearer to the ape than you or I, and therefore of interest, as the
germ of things is always. Yet he has qualities, I think; cunning, and
fidelity and love which in its round is all in all. Do you understand,
Allan, that love is all in all?"

I answered warily that it depended upon what she meant by love, to which
she replied that she would explain afterwards when we had leisure to
talk, adding,

"What this little yellow monkey understands by it at least has served
you well, or so I believe. You shall tell me the tale of it some day.
Now of the last, this Black One. Here I think is a man indeed, a warrior
of warriors such as there used to be in the early world, if a savage.
Well, believe me, Allan, savages are often the best. Moreover, all are
still savage at heart, even you and I. For what is termed culture is
but coat upon coat of paint laid on to hide our native colour, and often
there is poison in the paint. That axe of his has drunk deep, I think,
though always in fair fight, and I say that