The atmosphere of the room is impregnated with a bewitching, love-inspiring perfume. Not a sound is to be heard save the pattering of the water-drops as they fall back into the basin. All at once the familiar winding of a horn is heard outside. The prancing and neighing of horses in the courtyard scares away the silence. Above the din rises the word of command of a well-known voice. Azrael smiles, and rocks herself still more swiftly in her hammock. A fatal enticement lurks in her eyes as she looks towards the golden-trellised door, and throws back her head. A minute later, and we hear hasty steps approaching. Impelled by love, Corsar Beg is hastening towards his earthly paradise. The turning of a key is audible in the golden door. Azrael laughs aloud, and rocks herself still more swiftly in her bright-winged hammock. * * * * * The shadows of night have descended. Every living thing sleeps soundly. Love alone is wakeful. "Oh, I fear me! I fear me!" whispers Azrael, clinging still more closely to the breast of the wild Moorish horseman. "Why dost thou tremble? I am here," and he embraces her slim waist. "Hamaliel hath brought me evil dreams," returns the odalisk. "I dreamt that the Giaours stormed thy castle in the night-time and murdered thee. I would have hurled myself down from the battlements, but I could not because I was a captive. A Christian held me in his arms! Mashallah! it was frightful!" "Fear not!" said the Corsar. "The Koran says that only birds can fly, and none can get into this castle without wings. But even if we were surprised thou hast no cause to fear falling into the hands of the Infidel, or being defiled by the touch of the Giaour, for under the ottoman on which we now lie a lunt is laid which goes right down into the powder-chamber. If all were lost, thou hast but to touch that lunt with this night-lamp, and the whole castle with us and our foes would fly into the air." "Oh, what a consoling thought!" sighs Azrael, softly pressing her lips to the Corsar's cheeks, and seeming to slumber once more. The night-lamp flickers feebly on its tripod, multiplying its own shadow. The watchers snore before the doors. Suddenly Azrael springs screaming from her couch, dragging the Beg along with her. "La illah, il allah! Dost thou not hear the noise of the Jins?" she cries, trembling in every limb. The Beg stares around him in terror. A tempest is raging outside. The weathercocks creak and rattle. The wind tears the tiles from the summits of the minarets, and hurls them on to the cupolas of the kiosk. The lightning flashes, and the thunder teaches the rocks to tremble. "Dost thou hear how they howl, those invisible beings, and rattle at the barred and bolted windows with a mighty hand?" "By the shadow of Allah! I hear them right well," murmurs the trembling freebooter, with wildly staring eyes.