He walked slowly along the cool, dim hall, the silence of which was refreshing. Evidently there was not a single soul in this part of the palace; and for an instant there rose in the mind of the captive a wild idea of escape. He was here, alone, unseen—and hundreds of miles away from his uncle’s army, hundreds of miles from any possible safety. Sanity returned as quickly as it had left him, but bringing a new heaviness on his spirit. He came presently to the passage that led to Ragunáth’s rooms; and, looking down it, perceived that it ended in a bright patch of sunlight, marking an inner court. Instinctively he turned thither, finding himself presently on the edge of a charming little three-cornered courtyard, shut in on every side by vine-clad walls. Opposite the passage ran a veranda, overrun with passion-flowers; and in a corner near by rose a group of small tamarinds. The courtyard was unpaved, but in the centre of it stood a little fountain of clear, bubbling spring-water. This place, like the corridor, was without a sign of life; but, pleased with its homelike, pleasant air, Fidá entered it, suddenly seized with a sense of unfamiliar delight. As if in answer to his appearance, a door across from him was opened, and out upon the veranda, and thence into the court, came a young woman, unveiled, dressed in pale, flowing silk, her hips bound with a striped sash, of the broad Indian fashion, her dark hair twined with purple clematis. She was humming to herself a little tune; and as she hummed, she swayed her lithe body from side to side and stepped as a dancer does. Fidá drew a sharp breath. She was the woman who had danced the night before. She was Ahalya, youngest wife of Rai-Khizar-Pál. She was—the fairest creature that Fidá’s eyes had ever looked upon. As he drew quickly back into the shadow of the doorway, he knew, as one knows things in dreams and visions, that it was her spirit filling this place that had made it dear to him. Oblivious of himself, he stood gazing at her while she came to the fountain, sat down upon its brim, and dabbled her hands in the cool water, smiling to herself the while, reminiscently. Presently, lifting her eyes, she looked full upon Fidá, and, startled out of her composure, jumped to her feet, and then stood still again, uncertain whether she wished to run or not. Fidá advanced matters by walking forward into the courtyard again and performing a deep salaam before her. She saw the metal circlet on his head, knew him for a slave, and yet lifted up her voice and spoke to him. What manner of woman could she be! “Who art thou? What is thy name?” she asked, surprising herself by her unpremeditated boldness. The beauty of her voice, however, made the slave’s senses swim anew. “My name is Fidá. I come from Yemen. And my race is the race of Asra—” he looked into her eyes, and his voice sank to a whisper, as he added involuntarily, “who must die if they cherish love!”