The old woman who had opened the door, salaamed, touching the floor with her forehead as Hamilton walked in, and then securely shut and fastened the door behind him.  Saidie rose and looked through the shimmering lines of the chick at him as he entered.

Very handsome the tall commanding figure looked in the mean, bare room:  the long neck and well-modelled head, with its black, close-cut hair, stood out a noble relief against the colourless wall, and the clear brown skin, with the warm tint of quick blood in it that showed above the English collar, arrested the girl’s eyes with a keen thrill of joy.  Looking at him, she felt rushing through her the passionate delight that self-surrender to such a man would be.  Without waiting to be summoned, she parted the lines of the chick, came out from them, and fell on her knees at his feet.

The heat in the shut-up room was very great, and she was wearing only a straight white muslin tunic, through which all the soft beauty of her form could be seen, as an English face is seen through a veil.  Her hair was looped back from her brows and tied simply with a piece of green ribbon, as an English girl’s might have been, and flowed in its thick, black glossy waves to her waist.

Hamilton bent over her and raised her in his arms, feeling in that moment, though the whole universe were reeling and rocking round him to its ruin, he would care nothing while he pressed that soft breast to his.

The old woman sat down cross-legged by the charcoal, and began to fan it.

The other girl behind the chick looked out curiously, but her eyes never noted the strength and beauty of Hamilton’s figure, nor the bright glow in the oval cheek:  she looked to see if he wore rings on his fingers, and tried to catch sight of the links in his cuffs to see if they were silver or gold.

Saidie had the divine gift of passion:  all the fire of the gods in her veins.  Zenobie had none, and Saidie’s joy now was something she could not understand.

“Have you come to take me away, now at once?” Saidie murmured in a soft, passionate whisper close to his ear, and the accent of joy and delight went quivering down through the deepest recesses of the man’s being.

“Yes:  are you ready to come with me?” Needless question! put only for the supreme pleasure of listening to its answer.

“Oh, more than ready,” whispered the soft voice back.  “How shall the slave explain her longing to her lord?”

Zenobie had come round the chick, while they stood by the door, and drawn forward the one little low wooden stool that they possessed.  She came up now, and pulled at Saidie’s sleeve.

“Let the Sahib be seated,” she said reprovingly, and Saidie let her arms slip from his neck and drew him forward to the stool by the charcoal pan.

With some difficulty Hamilton drew up his long legs and seated himself cautiously on the small seat; Saidie and Zenobie sat cross-legged on the ground close to his feet.  The old woman ceased to fan the fire; the bright red glow of the coals fell softly on the strong, noble beauty of the man’s face, and Saidie, looking up to it, sat speechless, her bosom heaving, her lips parted, her dark eyes full of mysterious fires, melting, swimming, behind their veil of lashes.