“Come here!” he said to her, and as she approached he opened the case and took from it a bracelet, a limp band of gold with a clasp of rubies and diamonds that flashed a thousand sparkling rays into the astonished eyes of the girl, accustomed only to the dull, uncut or poorly-cut gems of the East.

“How wonderful!  Is it for me, really?” she exclaimed, as Ahmed took her unresisting arm and clasped the bracelet round it above the elbow, where it lent a new beauty to the flesh.

“Now, take some coffee, and then you shall play to me while I rest and smoke,” continued Ahmed, kissing her tenderly between the eyes, as she gazed up gratefully to him, and though she flushed and trembled, this time she did not shrink from him.

The coffee seemed more delicious than any that was served in the haremlik, and the gold-tipped cigarettes and the jam, made out of rose leaves, that Ahmed pressed upon her, delighted her senses and helped to make her think less of the passing hour and Murad, who would be waiting in stormy passion for her, in the angle of the wall.  “I can’t help it; I can’t help it!” she thought to herself as she took up her instrument and bent over the strings to tune them, while Ahmed stretched himself at full length on the divan to listen, with a scarlet cushion supporting his regal head.  She could both sing and play well, for Ahmed loved music, and wisely considered it a safe amusement—­an outlet for superfluous passions and unexpressed feelings—­for the women of the harem.  Instruments were provided in plenty, and instruction and all encouragement given to them to learn, and from her first day in the harem Dilama’s natural voice and talents had been noted and fostered.  This afternoon, at first she was timid, and sang and played stiffly, carefully, with a great attention to notes and strings; but slowly the calm and stillness of the beautiful sun-filled room, the scented air floating in from the garden, the tense atmosphere of passion about her, and the magic beauty of the face and form opposite influenced her, grew upon her, wrapped her round, and she began to sing passionately, ardently, with that abandonment, without which all music is a hollow sound.  Her glorious voice, fresh, youthful, clear, and pure came rushing joyously over her lips and filled the room.  Her spirits rose as she realised the power she was exerting.  She felt a little impatient at the thought of Murad.  After all, she was a great lady, a lady of the harem of Ahmed Ali, the richest Turk in Damascus.  She was dressed in delicate silks, and the jewels blazed on her arm.  She was queen of the harem, and the beloved of its lord.  He was most desirable to her and to all women, and, but for Murad, who seemed to stand like a black shadow between, she would have lain upon his breast with pure delight.  She leant forward now, singing rapturously over the instrument pressed close to her soft breast, while her rose-hued fingers leapt among its strings; a transparent flush,