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His house stood highest of all in the little city, close upon the hill of ruins. He had himself planned and superintended its building long ago, so that there was none like it for size and nobility of aspect.

Before the wide open arch which was the entrance hall, upon a terrace of rolled mud—which seemed a parade ground, but was in fact but the roof of the house below—an old negro was standing in a posture of some dejection, gazing wistfully at the heights beyond the wady. He started at his master’s approach, and answered the question about Alia with a despairing grin.

Shems-ud-dìn passed into the house. Very softly he opened a door. The room within was darkened. What light stole in through chinks in the shutters revealed but vague outlines.

“How is she?” he whispered.

“As always. She has not slept.” Some one arose in the gloom and came to him.

“Who is it?” wailed a fretful voice from the floor. “O Fatmeh, who is it? Bid him depart.”

Shems-ud-dìn went and knelt beside the sufferer.

“See, O beloved! I have brought thee a thing thou lovest well—some of thy chosen perfume!”