The owners of the house could not resist the advantageous offer made them, and Cecil, seeing in the bold stroke proposed their only chance, allowed it to be accepted. A ragged old cloak, with the orthodox brown and white stripes, and a torn head-handkerchief, fastened round the brow by a rope of twisted wool, which kept it well down over the face, made Azim Bey a most realistic-looking little Arab, and Cecil felt that it was very unlikely that he would be recognised in his disguise. The mob in front of the house had become quieter by this time, and old Ayesha, the Bey’s nurse, proposed that she and her fellow-servants should leave the house by the front door a few minutes after he and Cecil had stolen out at the back, thus leading the crowd to believe that the two most important members of the party were still within. Cecil objected to this as sending the servants into unnecessary danger, but Um Yusuf assured her that without herself and the Bey they would in all probability be able to pass through the streets in safety, and she allowed herself to be overruled. “Go with the women, O Masûd,” said Azim Bey to the faithful negro, who was following them to the back door. “God forbid, O my lord!” said Masûd, stolidly. “Am I not here to attend upon my lord and mademoiselle, and shall I leave them?” “Go thy way, O Masûd!” cried Azim Bey, impatiently. “Thou art as well known in Baghdad as the tower of the Lady Zubeydeh (upon whom be peace) itself, and shall we be slain for the sake of thy black face?” “My lord is very wise, and his servant will obey him,” returned Masûd, and marched back to the other servants.