With the lifting of the curtain on the third act, the scene shifts.  No more Sweet Waters, no more caiques nor stolen interviews, the music of hot kisses drowned in the splash of the listening fountain.  Instead, there is seen a sumptuously furnished interior the walls wainscoted in Moorish mosaics and lined by broad divans covered with silken rugs.  Small tables stand about holding trays of cigarettes and sweets.  Over against a window overlooking a garden lounges a group of women—­some young, some old, one or two of them black as coal.  It is the harem of the Pasha, the father of Mahmoud, Prince of the Rising Sun, Chosen of the Faithful, Governor of a province, and of forty other things beside—­most of which Joe had forgotten.

Months had passed since that night in the arbor.  Yuleima had cried her eyes out, and Mahmoud had shaken his fists and belabored his head, swearing by the beard of the Prophet that come what might Yuleima should be his.

Then came the death of the paternal potentate, and the young lover was free—­free to come and go, to love, to hate; free to follow the carriage of his imperial master in his race up the hill after the ceremony of the Selamlik; free to choose any number of Yuleimas for his solace; free to do whatever pleased him—­except to make the beautiful Yuleima his spouse.  This the High-Mightinesses forbade.  There were no personal grounds for their objection.  The daughter of the rich Bagdad merchant was as gentle as a doe, beautiful as a star seen through the soft mists of the morning, and of stainless virtue.  Her father had ever been a loyal subject, giving of his substance to both church and state, but there were other things to consider, among them a spouse especially selected by a council of High Pan-Jams, whose decision, having been approved by their imperial master, was not only binding, but final—­so final that death awaited any one who would dare oppose it.  At the feast of Ramazan the two should wed.  Yuleima might take second, third, or fortieth place—­but not first.

The young prince gritted his row of white teeth and flashed his slumbering eyes—­and they could flash—­blaze sometimes—­with a fire that scorched.  Yuleima would be his, unsullied in his own eyes and the world’s, or she should remain in the little white house on the brown hill and continue to blur her beautiful eyes with the tears of her grief.

Then the favorite slave and the faithful caique-ji —­the one who found the little cove even on the darkest night—­put their heads together—­two very cunning and wise heads, one black and wrinkled and the other sun-tanned and yellow—­with the result that one night a new odalisque, a dark-skinned, black-haired houri, the exact opposite of the fair-skinned, fair-haired Yuleima, joined the coterie in the harem of the palace of the prince.  She had been bought with a great price and smuggled into Stamboul, the story ran, a present from a distinguished friend of his father, little courtesies like this being common in Oriental countries, as one would send a bottle of old Madeira from his cellar or a choice cut of venison from his estate, such customs as is well known being purely a matter of geography.