His venom leaped out at her in his voice.  It was a terrible voice, the cold, grating menace of a madman.

“You, who had never seen this man but who fluttered to him like a white moth to a fire, you who cowered from your husband’s hand but who turned to follow this strange dog into the streets—­there will be care taken of you later.  But now—­you complained of fatigue.  Surely this scene is overtaxing for your delicacy.  If you will come to your rooms—­”

She drew back from the hand he laid upon her.  “Do not injure him!  By Allah’s truth!  He is rash, mad, but a stranger.  He did not know—­”

“He needs enlightenment.  He needs to learn that a nobleman’s harem is not a cafe of dancing girls, where all may enter and stare and fondle. Bismallah—­he shall learn!...  And now come—­”

“I shall not go,” she said breathlessly.

“What—­struggle?  But your father has been strangely remiss with his discipline....  Permit me.”

His hand tightened in a grasp of iron.

“My train is caught,” she said in a tone of sudden pettishness; she stooped to lift it with her hand that was free.

“My train—!” he mimicked her in a quivering falsetto.  “Have a care of my frock—­do not crush my chiffons....  And these are the women for whom men break their heads and hearts!”

“I tell you, sir,” came urgently from Ryder, “that the girl is innocent of all—­”

“Keep your tongue from her name—­and your eyes from her face!...  Come, madame.”

With his iron grasp on her elbow he thrust her towards the boudoir at the end of the drawing-room, behind whose curtains Ryder had so long been hiding.

The chamber was in darkness, lighted only by a pale gleam from the other room.  Aimee stumbled across the rug and found herself upon a huge divan against a window screen.

“Fatima is in the next room to come at a call.  But perhaps you would prefer to wait for me alone?  I shall not be long.”

Desperately she caught at his arm, imploring, “I beg you, monsieur.  He has done no real harm.  Let him go.  He is a stranger—­he did not know.  And he will never trouble you again.  I will do anything—­everything you desire—­if only you will not injure him—­”

“You trouble yourself strangely for a stranger.”

“He is a stranger in danger for my sake.  For it was in his duty to my—­my family—­” her trembling lips stumbled over the ridiculous lies, “that he has blundered into this.  He has no idea how shocking a thing he has—­”

“And you had no idea, either, I suppose.  You had never heard of honor or treachery or—­”

“I was wrong, oh, I was wrong!  I did want to go to France—­I own it.  And I was not ready for marriage.  And I had heard that you—­I was afraid.  But now—­if you will let him go for my sake, if you will not visit my sins upon him, oh, I should be so grateful—­so grateful that anything I can ever do—­”