"On the contrary, it is neat and small, but not quite _retroussé_. She moves—_merveilleuse!_—tears—she is weeping! On her breast there is a silver crescent; and now—now—the whole thing fades away!" I was springing forward, when the hakim waved me imperiously back with his bronze rod, and instantly poured the contents of the shell on the tiled floor, from which a strange mephitic odour rose. This was not the case on the previous unsuccessful occasion. Jules, who had become quite grave, now turned eagerly, and full of interest, to me. "Is this the lady whose face you saw?" I asked, showing him the miniature of Louisa. "No, monsieur; there is not the least resemblance." "Indeed!" "I am somewhat of an artist, and know." "You are sure?" "Sure as I now address you, monsieur." I began to smile. "I have said that her eyes seemed dark, nearly as these. Her hair was black, thick, and wavy, but her nose and features were all smaller—more (pardon me, monsieur) feminine, perhaps—less decided in character, certainly; and on her breast she had a crescent of silver." "A crescent!" "Yes, monsieur, with a lion above it. The ornament seemed to fasten or adorn the dress, and I saw it distinctly till she placed her hand upon it, and then the water in the shell rippled. It is positively miraculous," he added, turning to Captain Baudeuf, who was twirling his moustache and smiling with obstinate incredulity. The latter details petrified me. Jolicoeur’s description was completely that of my cousin, Cora Calderwood. The crescent and lion was a gift I had sent her from India—a double ornament I had picked up in the great pagoda at Rangoon, and which she always wore, preferring it to her father’s crest and every other brooch. "Are you satisfied, effendi?" asked the hakim, quietly, for he seemed used to astonishment on such occasions. "I am bewildered, at all events, hakim," said I. "Why so?" "It was not she I asked for or whom I named." "How do you know? You did not see. Another looked with your eyes." "True—but what does the vision portend?" "You asked to see her——" "I loved, hakim," said I, emphatically. "Nay, she who—if Allah and the Muscovite dogs spare you—is to be your wife, your _hanoum_. Do you not remember? Go! _Allah Kerim_! it is _kismet_—your destiny. The destinies of all, and the hour in which we are to die—yea, the very moment—are written by the finger of Azrael on our foreheads at our birth—on yours also, although you believe neither in Azrael[*] nor the Prophet. Go! the mark is there, although we see it not." [*] The Mahommedan Angel of Death.