To write her letter under these circumstances, without alluding to the subject which filled almost all her waking thoughts, was a difficult task, but she feared that the epistle might fall into unfriendly hands, and she wrote it without even mentioning Charlie’s name. The recital of the alarms and moving incidents which had diversified the passage of the caravan through the mountains took her so long that she did not finish the letter until the afternoon of the day on which Azim Bey was expected back, and she gave a sigh of gratification as she wrapped the envelope in the strong paper covering which was necessary to protect it against the rough usage it would probably meet with in its transit to Baghdad. This operation completed, and the packet firmly sealed, she went out on the broad _lewan_ or piazza to call one of the servants, who might give it to the Pasha’s courier before he started on his journey to the city. Looking down into the courtyard, without the slightest foreboding of coming trouble, she saw that the servants had a visitor. Um Yusuf, old Ayesha, and Basmeh Kalfa were sitting on the ground, entertaining with coffee and cakes an elderly woman in whom Cecil recognised a former _kalfa_ of the Um-ul-Pasha’s, who had married a non-commissioned officer of one of the regiments which formed the guard of honour, and who had been permitted to accompany her husband on this expedition. But the cakes stood untasted, and Basmeh Kalfa had paused in the act of pouring out the coffee, and was holding the pot suspended in the air, while she and the others stared with eyes of horror at their visitor, and listened with upraised hands of dismay to some story which she seemed to be narrating. “May God visit it upon my own head if it be not true!” concluded the stranger, and Cecil heard Um Yusuf apostrophising a string of obscure Syrian saints, while the two other women murmured, “God forbid!” and “God is great!” in awestruck tones. “How wilt thou tell thy lady, O Um Yusuf?” asked old Ayesha, just as Um Yusuf looked up, met her mistress’s eye, and dropped in her consternation the cup she was holding. A feeling for which she could not account impelled Cecil to descend the steps leading into the court and enter the group, the members of which started guiltily when they found her among them, the visitor alone taking refuge in an assumed carelessness. “Is anything wrong? What is the matter?” Cecil asked. “Oh, nothing, mademoiselle,” replied Um Yusuf, hastily. “You want me?” “I am sure there is something wrong,” said Cecil. “Latifeh Kalfa has brought bad news. What is it that you are to tell me, Um Yusuf?” “You come with me, mademoiselle,” said Um Yusuf, trying to draw her mistress aside. “That daughter of Shaitan know nothing--she make it all up.” “God forbid!” said Latifeh Kalfa, piously. “O my soul, come with me!” entreated Um Yusuf.