“Than with her, with Paula?” Mary broke in.  The eager little thing sprang to her feet, her eyes flashed lightnings and her voice quivered with rage, as she exclaimed:  “And you not only say it but mean it?  Is it possible?”

“Not only possible, but positive, sweetheart,” replied the old man, putting out his hand to take hers, but she shrank back, exclaiming vehemently: 

“I will not be your sweetheart, if you speak so of her!  A man as old as you are ought to be just.  You do not know her at all, and what you say about her heart. . .”

“Gently, gently, child,” the widow put in; and Horapollo answered with peculiar emphasis.

“That heart, my little whirlwind!—­it would be well for us all if we could forget it, forget it for good or for evil.  She has been tried to-day, and that heart is sentenced to cease beating.”

“Sentenced!  Merciful Heaven!” shrieked Pulcheria, and as she started up her mother cried out: 

“For God’s sake do not jest about such things, it is a sin.—­Is it true?—­Is it possible?  Those wretches, those . . .  I see in your face it is true; they have condemned Paula.”

“As you say,” replied Horapollo calmly.  “The girl is to be executed.”

“And you only tell us now?” wept Pulcheria, while Mary broke out: 

“And yet you have been able to jest and laugh, and you—­I hate you!  And if you were not such a helpless, old, old man. . .”  But here Joanna again silenced the child, and she asked between her sobs: 

“Executed?—­Will they cut off her head?  And is there no mercy for her who was as far away from that luckless fight as we were—­for her, a girl, and the daughter of Thomas?”

To which the old man replied: 

“Wait a while, only wait!  Heaven has perhaps chosen her for great ends.  She may be destined to save a whole country and nation from destruction by her death.  It is even possible. . .”

“Speak out plainly; you make me shudder with your oracular hints,” cried the widow; but he only shrugged his shoulders and said coolly: 

“What we foresee is not yet known.  Heaven alone can decide in such a case.  It will be well for us all—­for me, for her, for Pulcheria, and even our absent Philip, if the divinity selects her as its instrument.  But who can see into darkness?  If it is any comfort to you, Joanna, I can inform you that the soft-hearted Kadi and his Arab colleagues, out of sheer hatred of the Vekeel, who is immeasurably their superior in talent and strength of will, will do everything in their power. . . .”  “To save her?” exclaimed the widow.

“To-morrow they will hold council and decide whether to send a messenger to Medina to implore pardon for her,” Horapollo went on with a horrible smile.  “The day after they will discuss who the messenger is to be, and before he can reach Arabia fate will have overtaken the prisoner.  The Vekeel Obada moves faster than they do, and the power lies in his hands so long as Amru is absent from Egypt.  He, they say, perfectly dotes on the Mukaukas’ son, and for his sake—­who knows?  Paula as his betrothed.”