hey are inside
the wall.

As they walk along behind their guide John whispers to the Arab:

"On my word, I believe the fellow neglected to quite secure the door in
the wall," to which remark Mustapha replies in low tones:

"Presumably he knows his business, monsieur; anyhow, it concerns us not
at all."

Which John takes as a gentle reminder that these Arabs are very
particular not to interfere with things that belong to another.

He says no more.

They reach the central room, opening upon the court where plashes the
fountain.

The guide stops.

Upon the scented air comes the notes of a musical instrument, a mandolin,
and the chords are peculiarly sad and yet so very full of music.

Then a voice breaks forth--such singing John has heard only in his
dreams--it is a voice of wondrous power, sympathetic and sweet, a voice
that would haunt a man forever.

John knows no Moorish maidens can sing that song, and his heart gives a
wild throb as the conviction is suddenly forced upon him that at last,
after these weary years of waiting, after his search over half the
world, he is now listening to the voice that hushed his infantile cries,
and fell upon his ears like a benison.

No wonder, then, he stands there as if made of stone--stands and drinks
in the sweet volume of sound as it floods that Moorish court, until the
last note dies away as might the carol of a bird at even-tide.

Then he swallows a sob, and braces himself for the coming ordeal.
Something behind reaches his ear. He is positive he catches a deep groan
as of despair; perhaps it comes from some cage, where this Moorish
judge has an enemy in confinement.

He is not given a chance to speculate upon the subject. His guide
touches his arm and points. John discovers that his presence has already
been made known to the Moor.

He is expected to come forward. Under the circumstances, the young man
is in no condition for delay. That song, that heavenly voice, has gone
straight to his heart, and he longs to look upon the face of the sweet
singer.

So he advances, not slowly and with any show of dignity, but in the
eager way that does credit to his heart.

He sees a figure in black, seated near the old Moor, and instantly his
eyes are glued upon that face.

Then his heart tells him he now looks upon the face of the mother who
has been lost to him so long.

Does she know? has she received his note, or is her presence here simply
at the desire of her fri