“Where are we, Um Yusuf?” asked Cecil. Um Yusuf cast up her eyes and lifted her empty hands to indicate absolute ignorance. “Do you think they can have taken us across the mountains to Sulaminyeh?” pursued Cecil, putting into words a fear which had begun to haunt her. “Yes, mademoiselle, that what I think,” returned Um Yusuf. Cecil was silent, listening to the patter and swish of the storm, and the fall of the plaster from the ceiling. The wind moaned and howled, and seemed to be almost strong enough to tear the house from its foundations, while over all there came a loud rushing sound, now close at hand, now farther off, like that of water lashed into fury by a tempest. She did not recognise it at first, but it occurred to her suddenly what it was. “Listen!” she said to Um Yusuf, glad of any pretext for doubting the dreadful suggestion which she had herself made. “I am sure I hear the sound of waves washing up against the walls. The house must be on the river somewhere. Can we be at Mohammerah?” “No, mademoiselle; we not passed the marshes, and journey not long enough. I think this Sulaminyeh. Why not river there?” Cecil shuddered. To be imprisoned in the heart of Kurdistan, many long miles away from any English or even European official, with no one to whom to appeal for protection or justice, was not a comfortable prospect. She said no more to Um Yusuf, and at last, as they sat side by side upon their mattresses, she dropped asleep, lulled by the howling of the wind. After what seemed only a few minutes, though she knew later that it must have been some hours, she awoke with a start, to find that it was broad daylight, and that Um Yusuf was standing beside her with an excited face. “Mademoiselle, we in the plains again, not at Sulaminyeh. That storm not rain at all, dust-storm. I think this place Mosul. When dust fall about in the night, I think it only stuff off walls, but now I look, see it all thick on everything. You see this?” Cecil sat up, and gazed in bewilderment at the handful of dust and sand which Um Yusuf had gathered up as a precious treasure. Then she recognised the maid’s allusion to the dust-storms peculiar to the Euphrates Valley, and conceived for the handful of dust an affection akin to that which Noah must have felt for the olive-leaf brought him by the dove. The fact that everything in the room was covered with gritty sand, and that it had made its way into her hair and clothes, was not worthy of notice in view of this discovery, and she and Um Yusuf made a rather difficult toilet with thankful hearts. They breakfasted on the remains of their last night’s supper, which had fortunately been covered up and had thus escaped the dust, and immediately afterwards the unattractive negress who had been their guide the night before unlocked the door and came in with a great bundle in her arms.