Dilama ventured to lift her eyes to the kingly figure before her, and meeting the pained, dark eyes bent on her, and realising that there was nothing, indeed, to make her fear but her own guilty conscience, she burst suddenly into an uncontrollable passion of weeping, and slipping from the couch fell sobbing at his feet.

Ahmed stooped and gathered her up in his arms, holding her to his breast, and this time she did not shrink from him, but lay there unresisting, crying violently.  For a moment the clasp of his arm, the touch of gentle sympathy, soothed and comforted her.  For one wild moment she longed to confide in him, to tell him the reality.  What would happen?  Was it possible that Ahmed would pardon her, and let her go to her own life, her own love and lover!  No, it was not possible—­any other offence but this; theft or murder he could have forgiven and sheltered, but this, no!  Instinctively she knew and felt it would not be possible to him—­a Turk, free from prejudice and superstition, liberal as he was—­to forgive her crime.  Death for herself and Murad was the best she could expect.  Ahmed’s own honour, the traditions of all his house, his great position would make it impossible for him to let her pass from his, a Turk’s harem to a Druze lover.  The thought whirled from her sick brain, leaving all confused and hopeless as before, and her tears rained fast.  Ahmed smoothed her soft hair and kissed her forehead gently, as it lay against his breast.

“Go and fetch your music, and sing to me,” he whispered, as her sobs ceased.  “See how lovely the spring time is; it is no time for tears, but for songs and—­love.”  He murmured the last word very softly and set her free.  Without looking at him she slipped away to the door in obedience to his command, and in a wild confusion of feeling in which pleasure struggled with fear.

When she came back with her instrument, a small pear shaped guitar in appearance, she was more composed.  Her eyes were still red and swollen, but the soft, elastic skin had already regained its colouring.  As she entered, soft bars of sunlight were falling through the room, the window had been opened, and the song of the birds came gaily through it.  Ahmed had ordered coffee and sweetmeats to be brought, and these now stood on a small inlaid table before her, on whose glistening arabesques of mother of pearl the sunbeams twinkled merrily.  Ahmed’s eyes lighted up with tender pleasure as he saw her enter, and she noted it.  He was still sitting on the couch, and held in his hand a small green leather case—­the counterpart of hundreds to be seen in the jewellers’ windows in Paris.  Dilama guessed at once it was some present for her.  Unconsciously the light, gay, butterfly nature of the girl began to reassert itself in the knowledge that the final issue had not to be met then; that there was respite for her, delay; and a natural joy stirred in her looking across at Ahmed.  It was something, after all, to be queen of the harem, to be wooed in gifts and smiles by its lord.