By the time she went into the house again her fears and depression had vanished; revived energy possessed her soul, and the little eavesdropper and tale-bearer had become in this short hour a purposeful and terrible woman, ready for any crime.

“Poor little lamb!” thought Philippus, as he went into Rufinus’ garden.  “That miserable man may have brought pangs enough to her little heart!”

His old friend’s garden-plot was deserted.  Under the sycamore, however, he perceived the figures of a very tall young man and a pretty woman, delicate, fair-haired, and rather pale.  The big young fellow was holding a skein of wool on his huge, outstretched hands; the girl was winding it on to a ball.  These were Rustem the Masdakite and Mandane, both now recovered from their injuries; the girl, indeed, had been restored to the new life of a calm and understanding mind.  Philippus had watched over this wonderful resuscitation with intense interest and care.  He ascribed it, in the first instance, to the great loss of blood from the wound in her head; and secondly, to the fresh air and perfect nursing she had had.  All that was now needful was to protect her against agitation and violent emotions.  In the Masdakite she had found a friend and a submissive adorer; and Philippus could rejoice as he looked at the couple, for his skill had indeed brought him nothing but credit.

His greeting to them was cheery and hearty, and in answer to his enquiry:  “How are you getting on?” Rustem replied, “As lively as a fish in water,” adding, as he pointed to Mandane, “and I can say the same for my fellow-countrywoman.”

“You are agreed then?” said the leech, and she nodded eager assent.

At this Philippus shook his finger at the man, exclaiming:  “Do not get too tightly entangled here, my friend.  Who knows how soon Haschim may call you away.”

Then, turning his back on the convalescents, he murmured to himself:  “Here again is something to cheer us in the midst of all this trouble-these two, and little Mary.”

Rufinus, before starting on his journey, had sent back all the crippled children he had had in his care to their various parents; thus the anteroom was empty.

The women apparently were at breakfast in the dining-room.  No, he was mistaken; it was yet too early, and Pulcheria was still busy laying the table.  She did not notice him as he went in, for she was busy arranging grapes, figs, pomegranates and sycamore-figs, a fruit resembling mulberries in flavor which grow in clusters from the trunk of the tree-between leaves, which the drought and heat of the past weeks had turned almost yellow.  The tempting heap was fast rising in an elegant many-hued hemisphere; but her thoughts were not in her occupation, for tears were coursing each other down her cheeks.

“Those tears are for her father,” thought the leech as he watched her from the threshold.  “Poor child!”—­How often he had heard his old friend call her so!