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“Ah!” smiled Mâs, as seeing light at last. “There is a camp down there in that wady—whether of the Bedû or the gypsies, Allah knows. Now come, since thou art not dead.”

Again he lifted her on to the broad saddle. Again an impenetrable darkness closed about them. But she was no more afraid. Having passed the extreme of horror, whole by a miracle, all else that might befall seemed light to bear.

A whiteness crept up somewhere behind the night. Soon, with the vagueness and the ceaseless jogging, she fell asleep, and awoke to find herself in a plain, somewhat cup-shaped, rimmed with jagged rocks. Something gaunt and monstrous, which appeared writhing, yet was still, stood in the way against them. It was the tree.

With a thankful heart she slid down from off the bruising saddle. She took from her bosom the strip of Alia’s raiment and gave it to Mâs, who was tall and could reach the branches.

“It is finished,” he said presently, with satisfaction.

Light increased with every minute. Mâs, having put out the lantern, withdrew from her and went and knelt upon the ground, his left shoulder toward the dawn. But Fatmeh, sitting huddled beneath the magic tree, knew not, nor cared to know, what he was doing. She wept in repentance of her great audacity.