The unexpected dignity and self-possession of this young creature, who could not be more than sixteen, together with the shock of discovering that the fantastic and dreamy-eyed being whom he had been treating somewhat in the free-and-easy fashion of the _Arabian Nights_ was a mere nineteenth century young English lady, reduced poor Lauriston to a level of abject consternation. And yet, against her will, there was something in her indignation more alluring than repellent; even as he stammered out the first words of a humble apology, the transient gleam of anger faded out of her long eyes, and he saw only before him a graceful tiny creature, calling forth his pity by the pain in her arm which made her wince and bite her under lip, and passionate yearning admiration by the seductive charm of every attitude and every movement. “I beg you to forgive my intrusion, madam. This address was given to me, by mistake, as that of one of my friends. I can’t describe to you the distress I feel at my share in your accident. Tell me how to summon your friends; I will go at once, and send a doctor. Please forgive me; for heaven’s sake, forgive me.” White wet beads stood on his forehead; he was in an agony as, the danger past, she evidently felt more and more acutely the smarting pain of her injured arm and shoulder. She gave way, as her plaintive eyes met those of the young soldier, and burst into tears. “There’s no one here. Mrs. Ellis has gone out; Sundran, my servant, is in bed, and I won’t--won’t let Rahas come. I’m afraid of him; I hate him, I hate him.” And she stamped her little velvet-shod foot, that came softly enough down on the pile of disordered rugs. “Oh, send some one to me--it does hurt so.” “I will! I will!” he said hastily. And afraid of the emotion which was choking his voice and causing his own eyes to overflow, he dashed out of the room and down the stairs. At the foot of them he came suddenly, with a great start, face to face with a tall, gaunt, dark-visaged man, who seemed to spring up like a magician from out of the gloom without sound or warning. He wore an Oriental dress of loose trousers, jacket and sash of a deep crimson, and a fez on his black hair; but there was no trace of likeness, no trace of a similarity of race, between the ivory skin and long liquid eyes of the girl Lauriston had just left, and the swarthy complexion and fierce, lowering expression of this man. “What are you doing here?” he said fluently enough, but with a strong foreign accent, clutching at the young man’s coat with long lean fingers.