“Yes, early this morning there stood erected in the courtyard a great altar, to which many men were bringing fagots and flowers. It will be an animal sacrifice also; for a dozen sacred cows were tethered in an enclosure there when I passed through.” “The animal sacrifice is not common. I have never seen one. It must be in honor of victory.” Ahmed did not answer. His eyes were fixed on a man who had come out of the palace alone and was running toward the slave-house. “That is Kanava,” he whispered, as the man drew near. Fidá beheld a cruel face, marked with lines of habitual ill-temper and impatience, and rendered doubly unpleasant by the deep pock-marks which pitted it everywhere. His dress was that of the common slaves; but the band about his head was of beaten silver. At his appearance the clamor in the slave-house suddenly ceased. Ahmed jumped to his feet, but Fidá remained seated, his empty bowl in his lap. Kanava scowled at the breach of respect, and shouted: “Up, slave! Up! You are summoned. Come!” Fidá rose obediently, went to the first opening in the trellis, and stepped to Kanava’s side. Together they started toward the palace, and the groups left behind looked after Fidá, with new respect; for, though he had been rash, Kanava had neither struck nor abused him, and was now, moreover, walking not in front of him, but at his side. As they neared the palace, Fidá’s curiosity as to their errand rose. But he would ask no questions, and Kanava did not offer information. So in silence they entered the palace, walked down long corridors to the audience hall, now cleared of every trace of last night’s festivity, and finally to the threshold of the outer door, where, without a word, Kanava turned and left the Asra standing stock-still before a remarkable scene.