And yet the picture before him was not an unpleasing one. In the heart of the thicket was a space clear of bushes, but occupied by the ruins of one of the ancient towers of the fortress, partly overgrown with grass. On a mass of fallen masonry sat Cecil in her blue dress, her veil thrown back. Above her were twisted boughs of apple and apricot, covered with bloom, and the thin smooth rods of the almond-tree, with pink and blush-coloured blossoms interspersed with tiny fresh green leaves. The branches bent and swayed in the light breeze, and swept her hair softly, and every wind scattered over her a shower of pink and white petals. But she was not studying the beauties of nature now. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, her eyelids drooping, and beside her was Charlie Egerton, holding both her hands in his, his eyes passionately devouring her face. They were not talking. It was a moment of supreme content, such as they had not enjoyed for months, and they were too happy to speak. The unseen spectator perceived it all, and gnashed his teeth with rage. Poor little Azim Bey! He knelt there, taking in every detail of the scene before him, and cursing one, at least, of the actors in it very heartily. If a loaded pistol had been put into his hand Charlie might have fared ill, but even Azim Bey did not feel impelled to test his dagger upon him before Cecil’s eyes. Therefore he only remained where he was, peering through the bushes, and listening eagerly when some chance sound disturbed the pair and they began to talk. Their talk filled him with amazement. It was by no means particularly deep, and it was undeniably disjointed; but the listener carried away with him ideas of love which differed widely both from those inculcated in his French novels and those engendered in his precocious little mind by the sensuous atmosphere of the harem in which he had been brought up. It gave him his first glimpse of the gulf which remained fixed between the most thoroughly Europeanised Turk and even an orientalised Englishman, who, with all his faults and follies, was still the heir of centuries of knightly training and Christian influence. Naimeh Khanum would have rejoiced if she could have known the thoughts which passed through her young brother’s mind in that half hour, for she would have hoped that the realisation of the underlying difference would lead him to make efforts to eradicate it altogether. But Azim Bey differed in many respects from his sister. His nature, like those of the men of his nation of whom she had spoken, was inclined to be satisfied with external resemblance to Europeans, and the discovery of the real unlikeness only made him hate all the more the individual through whom it was brought home to him. “I really must go back to Lady Haigh now,” said Cecil, at last. “Azim Bey will begin to suspect something.” Charlie’s reply was a remark not complimentary to Azim Bey.