Meantime, weeks had gone by. The autumn rains were at hand, and it was more than a month since the Rajah’s men had left for the north on Fidá’s behalf. Daily now their return was looked for; and, with every twelve hours of delay, Fidá grew more wretched. His mind was full of fear. It was not at all out of the nature of his uncle to have murdered the ambassadors for the money they might have with them, or for any fancied disrespect in their demeanor. Had this thing been done, Rai-Khizar-Pál must know it ere long, and then even the meagre joys of captivity would end for him. And at this time Fidá did not want to die. The existence of Ahalya made slavery more than bearable; for while he lived in the same building with her, the hope of seeing her again never quite left him. He loved her. He had told her that he loved her. That fact never failed to bring exhilaration upon him. Even the hope of freedom could not reconcile him to the idea of losing her forever. In his sanguine moments there flitted through his head the wildest plans:—storming the palace at the head of an army, bearing her forth in triumph, and carrying her home with him to Yemen, where they should live together forever in the house of his fathers, in the holy city. But, in time, these dreams were brought to an end by the return of the messengers from their long journey. On the night of the twenty-fifth of October, Fidá lay asleep in the little box of a room that had been made his own. He had gone to bed early that night, for the Rajah was hunting in the hills, and his services were dispensed with. It was nearly midnight when the slave opened his eyes to find a soldier of the guard standing over him. He started up, and was presently following the man stupidly through rooms and passages till they had come to the audience hall, where the Rajah, dressed in dusty hunting-garb, sat on his daïs, a frown of deepest anger on his brow. In front of him were five men, worn, dishevelled, heavy with sleep. Save for this little group, the vast room was empty. The torches flickered, ghost-like, into shadowy corners. The deep night-stillness was only broken by the rattling of the soldier’s armor and weapons as he walked. In his first glance at the scene in the hall Fidá, now fully awake, recognized the situation. As his guide stood aside, he walked alone to the foot of the royal divan, and prostrated himself there, kissing the ground before him, in the deepest reverence a Moslem can do. When he had risen again, he lifted his eyes to the conqueror’s face and found the Rajah regarding him solemnly, with something like compassion. “O King, live forever! Thou hast summoned me.” “I summoned thee, Fidá ibn-Mahmud ibn-Hassan el-Asra, to hear thine uncle’s message to me. Thou seest my men are returned.” Fidá, gone white to the lips, looked into the Rajah’s eyes, and, albeit his voice was unsteady, said quietly: “Let them speak.” “Radai Sriyarman, repeat the message of Omar el-Asra.”