“Oh, I wonder at nothing,” said Gervase calmly, “except, perhaps, at myself.  And I echo your words most feelingly,—­What evil fate sent me to Cairo?  I cannot tell!  But here I purpose to remain.  My dear Murray, don’t let us quarrel if we can help it; it is such a waste of time.  I am not angry with you for loving la belle Ziska,- -try, therefore, not to be angry with me.  Let the fair one herself decide as to our merits.  My own opinion is that she cares for neither of us, and, moreover, that she never will care for any one except her fascinating self.  And certainly her charms are quite enough to engross her whole attention.  By the way, let me ask you, Denzil, in this headstrong passion of yours,—­for it is a headstrong passion, just as mine is,—­do you actually intend to make the Ziska your wife if she will have you?”

“Of course,” replied Murray, with some haughtiness.

A fleeting expression of amusement flitted over Gervase’s features.

“It is very honorable of you,” he said, “very!  My dear boy, you shall have your full chance.  Because I—­I would not make the Princess Madame Gervase for all the world!  She is not formed for a life of domesticity—­and pardon me—­I cannot picture her as the contented chatelaine of your grand old Scotch castle in Ross-shire.”

“Why not?”

“From an artistic point of view the idea is incongruous,” said Gervase lazily.  “Nevertheless, I will not interfere with your wooing.”

Denzil’s face brightened.

“You will not?”

“I will not—­I promise!  But”—­and here Gervase paused, looking his young friend full in the eyes, “remember, if your chance falls to the ground—­if Madame gives you your conge—­if she does not consent to be a Scottish chatelaine and listen every day to the bagpipes at dinner,—­you cannot expect me then to be indifferent to my own desires.  She shall not be Madame Gervase,—­oh, no!  She shall not be asked to attend to the pot-au-feu; she shall act the role for which she has dressed to-night; she shall be another Charmazel to another Araxes, though the wild days of Egypt are no more!”

A sudden shiver ran through him as he spoke, and instinctively he drew the white folds of his picturesque garb closer about him.

“There is a chill wind sweeping in from the desert,” he said, “an evil, sandy breath tasting of mummy-dust blown through the crevices of the tombs of kings.  Let us go in.”

Murray looked at him in a kind of dull despair.

“And what is to be done?” he asked.  “I cannot answer for myself—­ and—­from what you say, neither can you.”

“My dear friend—­or foe—­whichever you determine to be, I can answer for myself in one particular at any rate, namely, that as I told you, I shall not ask the Princess to marry me.  You, on the contrary, will do so.  Bonne chance!  I shall do nothing to prevent Madame from accepting the honorable position you intend to offer her.  And till the fiat has gone forth and the fair one has decided, we will not fly at each other’s throats like wolves disputing possession of a lamb; we will assume composure, even if we have it not.”  He paused, and laid one hand kindly on the younger man’s shoulder, “Is it agreed?”