When he came to the door of the building he found, to his amazement and consternation, that it stood open. No slave was on guard; but within, near the marble pool, hung a burning lamp that cast a faint light round about. Oman halted beneath it, and listened intently for some sound. There was one:—the softest, intermittent sighing:—a low cry, like the wailing of a new-born child. Unhesitatingly Oman followed the direction from which it came—followed through room and passage, till he had reached the inner apartments of Zenaide, and penetrated to the sanctum: her sleeping chamber. Here he found her. All that he at first perceived was a long, narrow room, the walls hung with palest blue, on which were embroidered white flocks of doves. There were many tiny lights round about, and against the walls knelt half a dozen women, wailing and beating their breasts. Beside these were one or two of the male slaves, standing about dejectedly, but uttering no sound. This was Oman’s first glance. Then he perceived something else, which instantly swallowed up every other thought. At the far end of the room stood a bier, hung with blue embroideries; and upon it, quiet, peaceful, still as a marble figure, lay the priestess of Radha, in her last sleep. The great eyes were shut. The wonderful, red-dyed hair was bound smoothly into a high crown above her brow, and one or two white lotos flowers were fastened above her ears. Her garments were all white, her feet encased in white shoes. There was but one spot of color anywhere. Over her heart, beneath her left breast, was a stain of moist crimson, that widened and spread a little, even as Oman gazed. It told him all that he would have asked. He stood silent over her, while the women and slaves crept close, looking up to him with some sign of hope in their heavy eyes. But, for the first time, perhaps, Oman had no hope to give. His thoughts, indeed, were not here. He was thinking of the slow order in which every one that he had known and loved in his life had passed into the other land. It was beginning to come home to him that his own hour of liberation was near. His eyes travelled slowly over Zenaide’s perfect form, from her face, which now, in its repose, showed the marks of time and sorrow, down her white arms, and to her white-clothed feet. Then, suddenly lifting his hands over her, he said, softly: “Rest thee, rest thee, in peace!” Then he turned to go. But the living ones crowded about him, demanding what they were to do. “The invaders cannot forbid the right of burial. On the morrow let her be burned, and the ashes placed in an urn. By night let one of ye convey this to the palace temple and lay it upon the tomb of the Lord Bhavani. Thus they shall meet in blessed death.” Then Oman would have gone, but that one of the women, Zenaide’s favorite attendant, ran to him and laid her hand upon his arm, saying: “And thou, my lord, whither art thou going?” Her voice sank to a whisper, for she felt her presumption.