“Hahmed!  Ah, Hahmed!  Come to me!”

And he was beside her.

The Arab had faced death more than once, had witnessed things unmoved which had served to freeze the very blood of others; but never had he heard such a cry as this which cleft the shadows in the room.

Great drops of sweat shone upon his forehead as he stooped above the couch, his strong white teeth biting into his under lip.

Swiftly he crossed the room, pulling back the silken curtain which served as a door, leaving an opening through which the dying moon struck a mighty silver spear.

And as swiftly he passed out into the gardens scented with sweet flowers, a little gate in the wall swinging back at his touch, through which he sped on and on to the great plains of his beloved desert.

It was the hour before the dawn, and turning in the direction of Mecca he prayed, and the prayer finished, advanced yet another twenty yards and, divesting himself of his cloak, laid it upon the ground, and then turning, sped back to his woman who honoured him before all men.

A little breeze heralding the coming dawn blew the silken curtains gently to and fro as the man knelt beside the low divan.

“Hahmed! the hour strikes—­I am afraid—­I—­oh!  Hahmed, I cannot see thy face, beloved.”

Two little white hands sought and grasped the strong ones held out to help, for through the faint voice had crept a note of fear.

But even though the little teeth had bit until red drops of blood had spilled from her mouth on to the white cushion, the great eyes smiled up into the man’s tortured face as he bent closer to the golden head.

“Harken!  Woman of women, thou who bringest honour unto me, in this thou shalt please thyself, for art thou not in this moment a very queen, and I but a slave at thy feet.

“Behold is it the custom of my tribe, dwellers of the desert, children of the sand, that the woman give birth to her first-born upon the very sand of this mighty desert.

“Not upon couch and silken cloth does the first-born draw its breath, but upon the sand with the desert wind upon his little head.

“I have no command for thee, beloved, because thou art of the West, where different customs rule, and I—­I mind not—­for my love for thee is above all custom, and all manner and fashioning of mankind!  Choose then and I am satisfied!”

Once again two little hands shone dimly as they were raised, searching blindly.

“Take me into thy arms, beloved, and carry me to the desert sand, for behold, thy will is my will and my ways are henceforth thy ways!  But hasten! for the moment is at hand.  Hold me in thy strength for I faint!”

Tenderly the great man stooped and gathered the girl to his breast.  Swiftly he crossed the threshold, and passing through the gate gently laid her down upon his mantle, stretched upon the ground.