“The Lady Dilama is weeping in her chamber, desiring my lord,” announced the slave, with much bowing and prostration, but still with that confidence which showed she knew how welcome the news would be to her august listener.  Ahmed rose, a fire of joy leaping up suddenly within him.

“It is well,” he said, in an even tone.  “Let the Lady Dilama come to me, and for yourself take this,” and he dropped beside the crouching heap of black back and shoulder a small velvet bag.  The slave grabbed it and put it in her breast, muttering a thousand thanks and blessings, and withdrew.

Once outside, her lean black legs carried her swiftly back to Dilama’s room, where she pushed aside the curtain without ceremony.

“Come!” she said imperiously, “you are Ahmed Ali’s chosen one; he has sent for you.  Put off that torn veil, and all that weeping.  I have new robes here for you.”

Dilama, who had hurriedly gathered herself up at the slave’s entry, shrank away now into a corner of the room, white as death.

“Has he sent for me?” she asked breathlessly.  “Commanded me?  Oh, must I go?”

The slave looked at her strangely.  She had no suspicion of Dilama’s secret, and had no idea that her own misrepresentations were as gross as they were.  But she had no wish to be harsh or unkind to this girl, who would be in a few hours queen of the harem.  She was puzzled.  She drew near to Dilama’s shrinking form, and peered into her face.

“Yes, he commands,” she said; “but is it possible you do not wish to go to Ahmed?  He is a king amongst men, and he loves you.  What better fate could there be than to lie on his breast, in his arms?  Is it not better than the ground to which you were crying just now?  Surely you will reward me well to-morrow?”

Dilama answered nothing.  Long shivers were passing through her.  It was decided, then; she could no longer avoid her fate, and already with that thought the Oriental calm of acceptance came to her.  Besides, where was Murad?  She could not tell.  Fate had taken him from her, perhaps—­the same Fate that gave her to Ahmed.  She was helpless.  She had no choice but to obey.  And the words of the slave, accompanied by those piercing, meaning looks, inflamed her senses.  After that unbearable week of solitude the summons came to her not all unwelcome, and the supreme thought of Ahmed himself loomed up suddenly, bringing irresistible joy with it.  A flame passed over her cheeks; she caught the slave’s skinny black hand between her own rose-leaf palms.

“Yes, I will reward you,” she murmured.  “Dress me beautifully, decorate me that I may find favour with Ahmed.”

The slave laughed meaningly.