To-day! To-morrow I shall go." "Not alive!" muttered Babalatchi to himself.

"And do you doubt your power," he went on in a louder tone--"you that to him are more beautiful than an houri of the seventh Heaven?
He is your slave." "A slave does run away sometimes," she said, gloomily, "and then the master must go and seek him out." "And do you want to live and die a beggar ?" asked Babalatchi, impatiently.
"I care not," she exclaimed, wringing her hands; and the black pupils of her wide-open eyes darted wildly here and there like petrels before the storm.
"Sh! Sh!" hissed Babalatchi, with a glance towards Omar.

"Do you think, O girl! that he himself would live like a beggar, even with you ?" "He is great," she said, ardently.

"He despises you all! He despises you all! He is indeed a man!" "You know that best," muttered Babalatchi, with a fugitive smile--"but remember, woman with the strong heart, that to hold him now you must be to him like the great sea to thirsty men--a never-ceasing torment, and a madness." He ceased and they stood in silence, both looking on the ground, and for a time nothing was heard above the crackling of the fire but the intoning of Omar glorifying the God--his God, and the Faith--his faith.
Then Babalatchi cocked his head on one side and appeared to listen intently to the hum of voices in the big courtyard.

The dull noise swelled into distinct shouts, then into a great tumult of voices, dying away, recommencing, growing louder, to cease again abruptly; and in those short pauses the shrill vociferations of women rushed up, as if released, towards the quiet heaven.