Dismounting from their steeds in the inner courtyard of the great house, where a number of slave-girls were gathered to stare at them, the new arrivals were led by Khadija into the rooms which she had promised them, and which, as Georgia was delighted to find, looked out on the desert in the direction of Bir-ul-Malik. After a short interval to allow them to arrange their possessions and to remove a little of the sand of travel, the old woman came to fetch them, and led them through the rambling, half-deserted house to the opposite wing. Everything in the rooms through which they were conducted spoke of vanished wealth and a gorgeous past. The divans were covered with rich silks, now faded, torn, and dirty, and costly ornaments of European manufacture stood broken and tarnished in corners. It was evident that Fath-ud-Din’s ambitious plans for his daughter’s future had not impelled him to keep her present abode even in tolerable repair, while it was not difficult to discern that Khadija cherished a strong preference for muddle and dirt over cleanliness and order. The state of the passages and of the bedrooms opening from them was extraordinary--they seemed to be filled both with the dust and with the rags of ages; while in the innermost room of all, and therefore the one with the smallest allowance of air and light, was to be found the jewel enshrined in this sorry casket, Fath-ud-Din’s daughter Zeynab, the destined bride of Antar Khan. “This is my Rose of the World, O doctor lady,” said Khadija, when she had led Georgia into the dark close room, and as she spoke she indicated a small form crouched among a heap of cushions on a broken bedstead. It was so dark that there was no possibility of seeing anything distinctly. “Get up on that chest, Rahah, and open the lattice a little way,” said Georgia; and as the girl, with a vigorous wrench, forced open the small high window, which moved so stiffly that it was evident it had not been touched for years, the light disclosed a very white little Rose indeed, with a face drawn with pain, and grimed and blistered with crying. The child (she could not have been more than ten) was lying in an uncomfortable cramped position, with the injured foot fastened down to one of the legs of the bedstead. This was Khadija’s latest idea of the way to reduce a swelling. Before saying anything, Georgia stooped and cut the cord, replacing the foot gently on the cushions, but the slight movement drew an uneasy little cry from the patient. “Who are these people?” she demanded fretfully of Khadija, trying to arrange the folds of the dirty wrapper she was wearing into some semblance of dignity. “I do not want visitors when I cannot put on my best clothes. Why hast thou brought these women here, O my nurse? Who are they, I say?” sharply. “It is the great doctor lady, who will cure thy foot, my dove,” replied Khadija, somewhat shamefacedly.