After a moment’s hesitation he lifted the curtain, and crossed the threshold. He was facing a long, narrow room, stone-paved, lighted from the top, the walls hung with embroidered silks of delicate hues. There was an air of unusual lightness and airiness about the whole place; and Oman’s eyes wandered for some seconds before he perceived that, at the far end of the room, in front of a long, amber-colored divan, half hidden by a screen, stood Zenaide. Oman uttered a short exclamation, and started forward, observing, as he approached her, that there was no smile on her lips. His eyes estimated her again; and they found much that was new. She was clad to-day in a long garment of silvery green, that showed her more slender than he had thought. She was also paler. Her hair was woven into a crown upon her head, but was without ornament; and in her dark eyes there was no expression of the voluptuary. Oman found himself newly puzzled as he seated himself, at her bidding, on the divan, while she sank upon a low pile of cushions on the floor. They had not yet spoken when a slave entered, with a tray of sherbets and sweetmeats which Oman refused, and Zenaide, not pressing him, herself waved away. When they were alone again, she rose, impulsively, ran down the room, and lowered a double hanging before the door. Then she turned, slowly, facing Oman, who was watching her. For some moments she neither advanced nor spoke. Oman perceived that she was in a state of repressed agitation, for her fingers twined and intertwined, and her clinging garments betrayed a nervous quivering of her body. It seemed as if it were impossible for her to speak; yet, as Oman did not help her, she had, perforce, to make a beginning. She had examined him minutely, face and figure, before she exclaimed, abruptly: “Art thou indeed as learned as they tell me, O sage?” Oman’s expression changed. “Not in thy lore,” he answered. “My lore? And what is that?” “Art thou not a woman? Thy lore is love.” “Ah!” The expression escaped involuntarily. It was a betrayal. “Ah!” echoed Oman. “It was for that you sent for me! Know, then, that I am not a faquir, not a mag—” “No, no!” Reading the scorn in his tone, she came forward swiftly and sank down in the cushions at his feet. “Think not that of me. I know something of thy creed. Bhavani has expounded it to me. I have considered it, carefully. But it is very pitiless. Thinkest thou not it is pitiless to the weak? Wouldst thou leave no sweetness in life?” Her eyes lifted themselves to him searchingly, and he felt the spell of her magnetism. Shaking himself free from the impression, he looked down upon her with a quizzical calmness that disconcerted her. “What wouldst thou of me, Zenaide?” he asked.