“Fear not, wise woman; let thy heart beat tranquilly at dawn, at noon and at the setting of the sun; for it is written that no harm shall befall the flower, no stain shall mark the ivory petals of innocence; no rude hand pluck it before its time.  Thou art not the only one to love the flower, wise woman.  There is one also who loveth it and watcheth it and will pluck it in due season; there is yet another who loveth and watcheth, but from a great, great distance.  If by the grace of Allah, who is God, the flower should be placed even for the passing of an hour within the hands of him who watcheth from afar, I tell thee, for so it is written, fear not, for no harm shall befall the fragrant blossom.”

The old woman nodded her head so that the diamond leaves glistened, and smiled gently and lifting her hand pulled aside the corner of the mantle, and laid her hand again on his.

“Nay, touch me not, for fear I shall pollute thee, thou woman of one great race; thou descendant of one unbroken line; thou noble with unblemished shield.”

Then she leant right forward, and laid both hands upon his shoulders.  “My son, my son, perchance could a very wise, very old woman help thee in thy stress, for behold, she understands all things, having herself passed through the troubled waters of life.”

The fortune-teller shook his head as he gripped the little hands upon his shoulders.

“For me there is no help, wise, all-loving woman.  But she who loves me, she whom I love and for whom I would die, even breaks her heart through me, her first-born, in my desert home.  Her beautiful eyes are full of tears, she lifts not her head, and my father, whom I honour, is far from her in her stress.  Perchance in the golden mint of thy heart hast thou a few coins of patience, wisdom and love to spare.”

As the old woman got slowly to her feet, the man sprang up beside her.

“My son, though thou drainest a fortune from the mint of Love at dawn, yet is it still there at eventide,” she whispered as she raised her jewelled hand to his shoulders and pulled him down towards her.  “My son, thou art my son, and I have faith in and a great love for thee and thine.”

And she kissed him upon the forehead, whilst the tears stood in her eyes, and turned towards the house, without noticing a man and a woman sitting in the shadows at the far side of the grounds.

For the woman who watched was Zulannah the harlot, who had gained an easy admission under the secrecy of her veils and the potency of backschish.

And as Ben Kelham had sat down, she had crept quietly from behind the palms to stand, a shimmering bundle of silks and satins, in front of the man who looked up in annoyance, and then smiled.

You really couldn’t be rude to anything so tantalisingly beautiful, especially when the lady of your choice has just shown a certain lamentable want of appreciation in regard to your person and propositions.