They had been lifted with tender care from the camel, and laid down under the best and largest tent. Girzilla was the first to awake. She opened her eyes and closed them suddenly; she imagined she was dreaming. Again the temptation was so great that she gently raised her eyelids, and saw that the tent was hung with Oriental silk drapery, while a thick Persian carpet had been spread upon the sand. There was so much reality about it that she felt elated. Where could she be? Where was Max? Raising her head she saw on the other side of the tent another carpet, and on it reclined the form of Max. Should she awaken him? A deep affection for the madcap had taken possession of her, and she was determined to do all she could to remain near him. Cautiously she moved from the carpet and to the entrance of the tent. She was utterly bewildered. A score of tents surrounded the one she had just left. Camels were lying down, chewing their cuds--others were asleep. Over all was the sky like a bright, blue canopy, studded with jets of brilliant light. The night air was calm and sweet, and Girzilla felt a soothing influence pass over her. With all the passionate fervor of her race she burst forth into poetic declamation. Clothing her ideas in Oriental language, developing the most beautiful imagery, she apostrophized the sky and the stars, speaking of the sky as the million-eyed goddess, looking down through the millions of stars on the earth, and directing the destinies of men. She thought she was unheard, but standing in the shadow of a tent was Ibrahim. He was entranced. “More beauteous than the daughters of Iran! More eloquent than the houris of Istaphan! Speak to me, and tell me who thou art.” Girzilla heard the voice. It was not that of Madcap Max. Who, then, could be speaking? All was silent, the stillness only broken by the champ, champ, champ of the camels. Ibrahim could see her, but the shadow of the tent enshrouded him in darkness, and her eyes could not penetrate into the blackness. “Who spake?” she whispered in her own language. “Thine eyes, which rival the stars in their brightness, should be able to see, though the clouds were blacker than the tomb, and thy soul, which speaks through thy lips, should divine that one who loves the music of thy mouth is near to thee.” Girzilla made no answer. She could not understand her surroundings. All was so pleasant that she feared it was a dream. To avert the calamity of awakening and finding that ’twas but a vision of the night, she returned silently to the carpets and fell asleep. The chloroform had not lost all its power. Ibrahim grew bolder when he found she did not answer him. “Come, sweet voice of the night,” he said, as he approached the tent. But Girzilla was asleep. “My own gazelle----” Max moved uneasily. “I will sing to thee the songs of Istaphan. I will make thee a throne upon which thou shalt sit as queen of my heart.”