That had been some three weeks ago, and now, on this soft, pearly evening, she was waiting eagerly for the sky to deepen, and the light of the stars to sharpen, and the orange to fall over the wall.  For the Druze had come many times, and no one had discovered the lovers, screened by masses of roses in the buttress-sheltered corner of the wall.  In fact, for the last weeks no one had had time or thought for anything but Buldoula, who lay sick within the palace walls, and attendants waited anxiously or ran hither and thither on various errands, and Ahmed was in the depths of anxiety; and no one thought about Dilama or paid any attention to her, and she was radiantly happy and self-engrossed, and came and went between the garden and her own little chamber as she listed, undisturbed.  And this evening, as usual, she slipped unobserved amongst the roses into the corner of the buttressed wall.  A moment after the boughs overhead parted, and the lithe Druze dropped down noiselessly beside her.  She put her gold braceleted arms round his strong brown neck, and pressed her silken-covered bosom hard against his rough cotton tunic.  A great rush of rosy light flooded all the sky for some minutes, then began to pale softly before the approach of the lustrous purple dark.

In the palace a light behind one of the mushrabeared windows was extinguished; there was the sound of the scurry of feet, and then a long wail came out from the building, rending the pink-hued twilight.

“Buldoula is dead!” remarked Dilama simply, as the lovers crouched together between the wall and the roses.  It meant nothing to her, enclosed in the happy warmth of her lover’s arms; death had no meaning for her yet, hardly seventeen years’ journey distant from birth, and full of all the sap and great leaping fires of life.  Death was something so far away, so impossible to realise.  It was but a word to her—­a casket enclosing nothing.  Yet the death of Buldoula was the embryo event in the womb of time from which was to develop the whole tragedy of her own life.

“Buldoula is dead,” she said again, carelessly, her rose-tipped fingers smoothing the black sweeping arch of the man’s brows.  “Perhaps her son is dead also.  Ahmed will be very grieved—­she was going to bear her second son.”

“Little dove!  I must take you away to the mountains soon,” said the Druze, clasping her tighter to him.  “Soon,” he muttered again, stooping down to look under the rose-boughs to the white-faced house, now, with all its screened windows, dark.  His words seemed irrelevant, yet they were not.  He had a keen prescience that the death of the favourite of the harem might influence very quickly Dilama’s fate.

“Why not take me now, Murad?  I want to see the mountains,” and she laid her little head, crowned by its masses of brown-gold hair, on his warm breast.