“Lady,” he said, “on the second night from now I depart from this city of yours, and glad shall I be to leave it living.  Therefore I have brought you these four priceless images of the most splendid workmanship of Tyre, thinking that it might please you to purchase them for the service of the goddess.”

“You depart,” she whispered; “alone?”

“No lady, not alone; the holy Issachar goes with me, also the escort of the prince Aziel—­and the prince himself, whose presence is no longer desired in Zimboe.”  Here he stopped, for he saw that Elissa was about to betray her agitation, and whispered, “Be not foolish, for you are watched; I have a letter for you.  Lady,” he continued in a louder voice, “if it will please you to examine this precious image in the light, you will no longer hesitate or think the price too high,” and bowing low he led the way behind the throne, whither Elissa followed him.

Now they were standing beneath the window-place, which they faced, and hidden from the gaze of the women by the gilded back of the high seat.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the parchment into her hand, “read quickly, and return it to me.”

She snatched the roll from him, and as her eyes devoured the lines, her face fell in, and her lips grew pale with anguish.

“Be brave,” murmured Metem, for his heart was stirred to pity; “it is best for all that he should go.”

“For him, perchance it is best,” she answered; as with an unwilling hand she gave him back the letter which she dared not keep, “but what of me?  Oh!  Metem, what of me?”

“Lady,” he said sadly, “I have no words to soothe your sorrow save that the gods have willed it thus.”

“What gods?” she asked fiercely; “not those they bid me worship.”  She shuddered, then went on, “Metem, be pitiful!  Oh! if ever you have loved a woman, or have been loved of one, for her sake be pitiful.  I must see him for the last time in farewell, and you can help me to it.”

“I!  In the name of Baal, how?”

“When do you have to leave the city, Metem?”

“At moonrise on the night after next.”

“Then an hour before moonrise I will be in the temple, whither I can come by the secret way that leads thither from this palace, and he can enter there, for the little gate shall be left unbarred.  Pray him to meet me, then—­for the last time.”

“Lady,” he urged, “this is but madness, and I refuse.  You must find another messenger.”

“Madness or not it is my will, and beware how you thwart me in it, Metem, for at least I am the Lady Baaltis, and have power to kill without question.  I swear to you that if I do not see him, you shall never leave this city living.”

“A shrewd argument, and to the point,” said Metem reflectively.  “Well, I have prepared myself a rock-hewn tomb at Tyre, and do not wish that my graven sarcophagus of best Egyptian alabaster should be wasted, or sold to some upstart for a song.”