That old sensation of unreality, phantasy, came to Barry again. Urged by Danbazzar, he attired himself in the strange dress that they had adopted with the idea that it would be more familiar to the awakened girl. Then, not entirely master of himself, he walked back along the _wâdi_. At Zalithea’s tent: “Wait outside,” Danbazzar directed. “Safîyeh will call you when I have made her understand you are here. I’ll do my best as interpreter.” He went in, leaving Barry alone in the darkness. Vaguely, a sound of voices came to him where he waited. The deep, subdued tones of Danbazzar made a marked contrast to the silvery note of that other voice! How well he seemed to know it! Barry wondered why he was so nervous. Suddenly the flap was drawn open, and the old Arab woman looked out, beckoning. Barry stooped and went in. He found himself in a sort of tiny antechamber or lobby constructed of hanging tent cloths. An antique lamp hung from above. There were carpets on the sandy floor, but no furniture. Safîyeh held one of the tent cloths aside and intimated that he was to enter. He stepped forward. Some hazy impression he had of a silver lamp, of embroidered curtains, of cushions, queer-looking inlaid chests, but these were an indistinct background into which the tall robed figure of Danbazzar merged appropriately. He was standing behind a cushioned divan, or native mattress. Upon it, her cheek resting in her upraised hand, lay Princess Zalithea. She was dressed in a manner which perhaps represented a compromise between the ancient and the modern Egyptian style. Her beautiful arms were bare to the shoulders, and she wore no jewellery of any kind. A sort of tightly fitting tunic and some sort of gauzy dress disguised in a measure the delicate shape which Danbazzar’s scissors had so mercilessly revealed in the tomb. Her white ankles were bare, as also were her little feet. It was so that he remembered her. Long, dark, heavily fringed eyes were raised to Barry as he entered. They were the deeply mysterious eyes that had watched him since memory began--the beckoning eyes of the women who lived upon the frescoes surrounding his father’s walls--the eyes that had smiled down upon him from a New Jersey balcony! How beautiful she was! But how pale and fragile. He found himself unable to believe Safîyeh’s report that she had enjoyed the meal so carefully prepared for her. Those full red lips, though, spoke of health. He was hopelessly, speechlessly embarrassed, under the grave scrutiny of unreadable eyes. But how beautiful she was! “Speak to her,” Danbazzar prompted. Barry bowed awkwardly. “Princess Zalithea,” he said, “I am deeply honoured.”