Before them stood a dazzlingly beautiful woman in oriental _déshabillé_. Her locks were enveloped in a red fez, the long gold tassels of which fell across her white turban over her pale face; her ivory-smooth shoulders gleamed forth from the sleeves of her short, ermine-embroidered kaftan; her eyes sparkled in the dark; every movement of her lithe body was serpentine, fascinating, maddening. The three men held their breath. The girl passed by without observing them. "Ah, that is she," whispered Zülfikar in amazement, when she had gone. "Who? Do you know her?" asked Clement. "It is Azrael, Corsar Beg's former favourite." "What a place for her to be in!" "Pst! she'll hear us." Meanwhile the girl had reached the basin where the subterraneous waters poured their mingled flood, sat down on a stone bench, and commenced to unwind her turban. Her jasper-black hair fell down over her shoulders. Sange Moarte's hot panting resounded through the darkness. The panther lay quietly at his mistress's feet, his shrewd head resting on his front paws. Azrael now removed her bright Persian shawl from her slim waist, and next prepared to slip off her light kaftan, taking a couple of steps towards a projecting rocky buttress which hid her from the eyes of the watchers. Sange Moarte was about to rush after her. It was all the two men could do to hold him back. "Are you mad?" growled Zülfikar in his ear. "Would you betray us with your infernal curiosity?" "The poor devil is in love with the girl!" whispered Clement. At that moment there came the sound of a splash, as of some one leaping into the water and playing with its waves. Sange Moarte frantically tore himself loose from his companions' arms, and with a furious yell rushed towards the basin. At this yell Azrael, in all the maddening witchery of her charms, sprang out of her watery mirror, looked at the presumptuous wretch with flashing eyes, and cried savagely-- "Oglan! Seize him!" The panther had hitherto remained motionless; but the moment his mistress called him to battle, he sprang up with a roar, seized the young Wallach, and threw him with a single jerk to the ground. Sange Moarte did not think of defending himself against the savage beast, but stretched out his hands imploringly towards the odalisk; drank in her loveliness with thirsty looks; writhed closer to her, and, weeping and groaning, fell down at her feet, while Azrael stared wildly at him, threw her mantle hastily around her, and watched her darling panther tear to pieces the youth who had never loved any one in his life in order that he might love her to the death. "I'll go and help him!" cried Clement, mad with horror, and drawing his sword. "Softly! Don't be a fool! Besides, we have something better to do. The iron gate remains open; let us creep in while the lady is otherwise engaged, and find out what there is here; that will interest our masters very much, especially mine."