“In the rooms at the other side of this house, mademoiselle. The Um-ul-Pasha arranged that you should be lodged quite alone this last night.” A flood of further questions was trembling on Cecil’s lips, but the courtyard had now been reached, and the mule-litter was waiting. Cecil and Um Yusuf were helped into their accustomed seats, to carry on during the ride an incoherent conversation, marked by bursts of enlightenment as fresh confirmations of Azim Bey’s words occurred to them. Arrived at their destination, the Bey met them again, and seizing Cecil’s hand as soon as she had dismounted, hurried her through rooms and passages in breathless haste. “Oh, by the bye, mademoiselle,” he said, as they entered the house, “it was the Um-ul-Pasha’s special wish that I should tell you that the gentleman you are going to see is the one she meant you to marry.” “So I understood,” said Cecil, much perplexed. “Oh, well, you can believe it or not, as you like, mademoiselle.” “Bey, what do you mean?” demanded Cecil, pausing to look back and see whether Um Yusuf was following. “Why shouldn’t I believe it when you told me so yourself?” “Oh, never mind, mademoiselle, only come. It is all right now--all right,” he repeated. “My heart is almost bursting, I am so happy.” “But why?” asked Cecil. “I can’t help it, mademoiselle, I scarcely know what to do. Now draw your veil close, we are coming to the _selamlik_. Dear mademoiselle,” and he stopped suddenly, “you have quite forgiven me--you are sure--for _his_ death?” “Dear boy, why do you remind me of this just now?” asked Cecil, the tears rising to her eyes once more. “I have forgiven you, long ago.” “I knew it, mademoiselle, but I wanted to hear you say it again. Go into that room,” and Azim Bey dashed off with something like a sob. Sorely puzzled, Cecil advanced in the direction he indicated, and drew aside the curtain over the doorway. Through the mist of her tears she saw a gaunt, dark-bearded man, wearing the regulation frock-coat and fez, standing with his back to her and looking out of the window. “An Armenian!” she said to herself, perceiving at once the unwelcome suitor whom she was to put out of his misery. “Monsieur----” The man turned round, and Cecil stood awestruck and speechless. Had that rocky grave in the mountains of Kurdistan given up its dead? She dropped the curtain, and staggered blindly across the floor with outstretched hands. “_Charlie?_” she gasped, tremblingly. The room was reeling with her, but strong arms caught her as she nearly fell, and the voice she had thought never to hear again was in her ears. “Cecil, my own darling, look at me. Don’t cry so dreadfully--it breaks my heart. Have I frightened you so much?” “They told me you were dead,” she murmured, when she could still the long-drawn sobs which broke from her in the stress of that first recognition.