“Your meaning, I pray you?” she asked.  “I have no appointment at moonrise, or at any other hour.”

Metem bowed politely, but in a fashion which showed that he put no faith in her words.

“Again I ask your meaning, merchant,” she said, “for your dark hintings are scarcely to be borne.”

The Phoenician looked at her; there was a ring of truth in her voice.

“Lady,” he said, “will you indeed deny, after I have seen it written by yourself, that within some few minutes you meet the prince Aziel beneath a great tree in the palace gardens, there—­so said the scroll—­to ask his aid in this matter of the suit of Ithobal?”

“Written by myself?” she said wonderingly.  “Meet the prince Aziel beneath a tree in the palace gardens?  Never have I thought of it.”

“Yet, lady, the scroll I saw purported to be written by you, and your own woman bore it to the prince.  As I think, she sits yonder at the end of the chamber, for I know her shape.”

“Come hither,” called Elissa, addressing the woman.  “Now tell me, what scroll was this that you carried to-day to the prince Aziel, saying that I sent you?”

“Lady,” answered the girl confusedly, “I never told the prince Aziel that you sent him the scroll.”

“The truth, woman, the truth,” said her mistress.  “Lie not, or it will be the worse for you.”

“Lady, this is the truth.  As I was walking through the market-place an old black woman met me, and offered me a piece of gold if I would deliver a letter into the hand of the prince Aziel.  The gold tempted me, for I had need of it, and I consented; but of who wrote the letter I know nothing, nor have I ever seen the woman before.”

“You have done wrong, girl,” said Elissa, “but I believe your tale.  Now go.”

When she had gone, Elissa stood for a while thinking; and, as she thought, Metem saw a look of fear gather on her face.

“Say,” she asked him, “is there anything strange about the tree of which the scroll tells?”

“Its size is strange,” he answered, “and it has five roots that stand above the ground.”

As he spoke Elissa uttered a little cry.

“Ah!” she said, “it is the tree of my dream.  Now—­now I understand.  Swift, oh! come with me swiftly, for see, the moon rises,” and she sprang to the door followed by the amazed Metem.

Another minute, and they were speeding down the narrow street so fast that those who loitered there turned their heads and laughed, for they thought that a jealous husband pursued his wife.  As Elissa fumbled at the hasp of the door of the garden, Metem overtook her.

“What means this hunt?” he gasped.

“That they have decoyed the prince here to murder him,” she answered, and sped through the gateway.

“Therefore we must be murdered also.  A woman’s logic,” the Phoenician reflected to himself as he panted after her.