She looked so absolutely undaunted as she sat facing them, every nerve on the stretch with excitement, a red spot burning on either cheek, that her opponents felt an uncomfortable sensation of approaching defeat. Was it possible that the Frangi woman was going to defy them after all? They had thought of her as a gentle, timid creature, amenable to the slightest pressure after the troubles she had gone through, but the reality was disappointing. The intended victim had risen to the occasion, and was ready to fight to the last, and the two ladies on the divan turned from her and began a hasty conversation, most of which was perfectly audible to Cecil. Indeed, but for the sake of the Um-ul-Pasha’s dignity, which she conceived made it derogatory to her to speak directly to the infidel, the interpreter would have been unnecessary throughout. “What are we to do? This will spoil everything,” said the Um-ul-Pasha. “Starve her, break her spirit!” cried Jamileh Khanum. “But there is no time,” objected the Um-ul-Pasha. “Whatever we do must be done at once. Let us send for Azim Bey, and bid him devise a plan to set things right.” “Never!” cried Jamileh Khanum, fiercely. “What! shall that young Shaitan laugh at my son’s beard?” This was a bold figure of speech, for little Najib Bey was barely two years old. “Let us send the Frangi woman a cup of coffee.” “Art thou mad?” cried the Um-ul-Pasha, aghast at the sinister suggestion. “Are we not yet deep enough in disgrace with my son, and shall we bring the wrath of the Balio Bey upon our heads as well? I tell thee this is our only chance. The boy has a wise head, and for the sake of his family will devise some scheme by which our credit may be saved and all set right.” “Do as thou wilt,” said Jamileh Khanum; “I will have no hand in it,” and she rose and swept from the room, flinging a curse at Cecil as she went. Presently the Um-ul-Pasha and Mdlle. Katrina followed her out, and Cecil and Um Yusuf were left alone, waiting in breathless expectancy. CHAPTER XXVII. PRACTICAL JOKES. It seemed a very long time that the two prisoners waited alone, and it was indeed long enough for the momentary excitement to pass away, and for Cecil to realise how very little she had to support her, in spite of her valiant words, beyond her innate British pluck and a determination not to be bullied. Um Yusuf was not a comforting companion. She passed the time in giving utterance to doleful prognostications, covering most of the contingencies which could reasonably be expected to occur under the circumstances, and ending up with-- “Yes, mademoiselle, this quite fixed in my mind. Not you nor I shall eat one morsel nor drink one drop more in this house.” “Well,” said Cecil, with a half-hearted attempt to turn the affair into a joke, “if we must choose between being starved and poisoned, Um Yusuf, I think the poisoning would be less painful in the end. It would certainly be quicker.”