It was so still that water sounds came faintly up to him, and every now and then he could even hear nightingales on the European side. Another nightingale began singing in his own woods--the same one that had told him what to do, he said to himself. What other things the nightingales had sung to him, years ago! And how long the pines had listened there, still strong and green and rugged and alive, while he, and how many before him, sat under them for a little while and then went away! Presently he heard steps on the drive and Shaban came, carrying something dark in his hand. 'What is that?' asked the Pasha, as Shaban held it out. 'A revolver, my Pasha. Zuembuel Agha told me you wanted it.' The Pasha laughed curtly. 'Zuembuel made a mistake. What I want is a shovel, or a couple of them. Can you find such a thing without asking any one?' 'Yes, my Pasha,' replied the Albanian promptly, laying the revolver on the steps and disappearing again. And it was not long before he was back with the desired implements. 'We must dig a hole, somewhere, Shaban,' said his master in a low voice. 'It must be in a place where people are not likely to go, but not too far from the kiosque.' Shaban immediately started toward the trees at the back of the house. The Pasha followed him silently into a path that wound through the wood. A nightingale began to sing again, very near them--_the_ nightingale, thought the Pasha. 'He is telling us where to go,' he said. Shaban permitted himself a low laugh. 'I think he is telling his mistress where to go. However, we will go too.' And they did, bearing away to one side of the path till they came to the foot of the tall cypress. 'This will do,' said the Pasha, 'if the roots are not in the way.' Without a word Shaban began to dig. The Pasha took the other spade. To the simple Albanian it was nothing out of the ordinary. What was extraordinary was that his master was able to keep it up, soft as the loam was under the trees. The most difficult thing about it was that they could not see what they were doing, except by the light of an occasional match. But at last the Pasha judged the ragged excavation of sufficient depth. Then he led the way back to the kiosque. They found Zuembuel Agha in the little room, sitting on the sofa with a revolver in either hand. 'I thought I told you not to come back!' exclaimed the Pasha sternly. 'Yes,' faltered the old eunuch, 'but I was afraid something might happen to you. So I waited below the pines. And when you went away into the woods with Shaban, I came here to watch.' He lifted a revolver significantly. 'I found the other one on the steps.'