Drums muttered somewhere in the shifting, warm fragrance. He heard the silvery clink-clinking of anklets. He rolled over on his side, and as he glanced along the rose-hued tiles, he saw dainty feet with hennaed nails stepping in cadence to the whining notes of a _kemenjah_, and the moan of pipes. As he made an effort to sit erect, a warm, soft arm supported his head, and slender, golden-brown hands offered him a bowl of cold, aromatic liquid. He drank it, and found that his reeling senses became more stable. The girl who smiled at him had great dark eyes with kohl-blackened lids. Another heaped cushions behind him. Paradise indeed; _al jannat_, temporarily offered as the reward of whatever infamy the lord Hassan demanded, and promised for all eternity to the fanatic _fedawi_ who died executing his commands. There were other guests scattered about the jasmine and rose clustered garden, and the brides of _al jannat_ were reviving them with flagons, cold drinks, and warm caresses. * * * * * Farrell made an effort to fight the illusion of distorted time and distance, and the sensuous allure of the music and hasheesh. He rose, and ignoring his amorous companions, set about exploring the garden. Strange birds flitted about among the orange and pomegranate trees and mocked him with their almost articulate cries. A parrot mimicked in a loud voice the endearments that a Malay girl murmured in the ear of one of the Devoted Ones. "Where is the Golden One?" he heard a swarthy Kurd demand as he thrust aside his slant-eyed Eurasian companion. The last of Farrell's intoxication left him. The Golden One--Antoinette! The girl laughed. "She'll scratch your eyes out! Let her alone!" "But the Master, our Lord Hassan, promised she'd greet us in Paradise," protested the Kurd. Farrell knew now beyond any doubt that Antoinette had been kidnapped to double in this satanic garden for the murdered La Dorada, to prove to the _hasheeshin_ that the Lord Hassan indeed held the keys to the garden of resurrection. "_Al Asfarani_, the Golden One----" Farrell seconded the Kurd's inquiry. "Snarling and spitting in her alcove, O Strong Man!" smiled the girl. Farrell left her to entertain the Kurd, and wandered past the rows of potted trees that paralleled the walls of the garden. The walls were pierced with deep niches that formed small rooms whose arched entrances were scarcely shoulder-high. As he glanced into each in succession, he noted the trinkets and cosmetics and perfumes, and articles of feminine apparel. Each bride of _al jannat_ seemed to have her own lupanar; but they apparently preferred to lounge among the fountains and arbors. Finally, however, Farrell found an occupied alcove. A woman lay face down among a heap of cushions. Her hair was copper-golden, and her bare shoulders were latticed with long, bluish stripes. Farrell knelt at her side. "Antoinette!" he whispered.