“Mirza,” said the commandant, “do you hear?”

“Yes,” she said, “I hear, and, being a woman, I am accustomed to such decisions.  I pay thirty ounces to Ilderhim for two years’ hire of a girl.  The girl turns Christian and I lose the thirty ounces.”

“Not so,” said Abdullah; “they are here,” and he placed a bag upon the commandant’s table.

“Take it,” said Mirza; and she tossed it to the oukil.

“To make his contract good,” she continued, “Ilderhim, my former husband, pays sixteen or seventeen ounces’ freight on the girl and her maid.  The girl turns Christian.  Who loses the freight?”

“I,” said Abdullah, and he placed another bag upon the table.

“Take it,” said Mirza, and the oukil grasped it.

“Let us see this girl who has kept us all up so late,” said Mirza, and she strode over to Nicha.  Abdullah put out his hand to keep her off.

“You’ve won,” she said; “why be disagreeable?  Let us see what you have gained and I have lost,” and she stripped the veil and the outer garment from the girl, who sat passive.  When the veil and the burnoose fell, the beauty of the girl filled the room as would a perfume.

The commandant and the lawyer sat speechless, gazing.  The oukil wrung his hands and exclaimed:  “What have we lost!” Abdullah stood, proud and happy.  The corporal at the door shifted his feet and rattled his side-arms, and Mirza laughed.  Then she stepped back a pace; the laughter died upon her lips, and her hands flew to her bosom.

“Little one,” she said, “the life you would have lived with me would not have been so hard when one remembers what the life of woman is, at best.  It is to amuse, to serve, to obey.  You are too young to understand.  You are, perhaps, fourteen?”

“Yes,” said Nicha.

“When I was fourteen,” said Mirza, “I too was beautiful; at least my husband and my mirror told me so.  There is something in your face that reminds me of the face I used to see in my glass, but when one grows old, and I am eight-and-twenty, one is sure to see resemblances that do not exist.  How prettily they have dressed you!  Did Ilderhim, your father, give you these silks and these emeralds?”

“Yes,” said Nicha.

“If you are hoping to be a good wife,” said Mirza, “you must not think too much of silks and jewels.  When I was in Paris, with the Grand Duke, I noticed that the women who had sold themselves had taken their pay in pearls and diamonds.  The honest women went more soberly.  I see you are of the old tribe—­the tribe of Ouled Nail.  Let me see your name.”

She raised the filigree medallion that hung upon Nicha’s upper arm.  She looked at the tattooed crest, started, drew her hand across her eyes, looked again, and fell to trembling.  She stood a moment, swaying, and then she staggered to the commandant’s table.  She rested one hand upon it and with the other she began playing with Ali’s knife.  Her face was gray but her lips were pitifully smiling.