They passed on through the portico into the great hall, and paused before the doorway of a room opening from it on the left. A servant drew aside the curtain, and revealed Queen Ernestine enthroned upon a marble seat, with Baroness von Hilfenstein and Mlle. Mirkovics standing behind her. All three ladies were swathed from head to foot in white _isars_, but the sheikh prostrated himself without venturing to steal a glance at them, and remained with his forehead touching the ground. “Behold, O great Princess, the Prince of the Jews,” he said. “He is come to learn thy will concerning his nation.” “It is well,” said the Queen, through Princess Anna. “My scribe shall declare to him my pleasure, and do thou wait without to conduct him back to his lodging when the audience is over.” The sheikh retired, quitting the awful presence of his sovereign with unconcealed willingness, and when he was safely out of sight the ladies relieved the Queen of her veil. After a word or two with Cyril, she turned to Mr Hicks and Mansfield with a smile that won their hearts for ever. “Count Mortimer’s friends are mine,” she said, stepping forward and holding out a hand to each; “and he has told me what good friends you have been to him. Please do not think I shall be jealous of his affection for you. I know that I owe this meeting to your fidelity to him.” To Cyril’s intense delight, that sturdy republican, Mr Hicks, dropped on one knee to kiss the Queen’s hand, as though to the manner born, murmuring: “If I were Count Mortimer’s deadliest enemy, madame, I guess the inducement you offer would make me friends with him right away.” “I know your story,” said the Queen softly to Mansfield, as he kissed her hand in silence, unable to utter a word. “Consider me your friend, and let me assure you that Count Mortimer is also on your side. When one is happy oneself, one is always eager to make others so.” Cyril smiled involuntarily, as he wondered in what light the Queen would regard Mansfield’s love-story when she heard of her son’s admiration for Philippa, and there was the faintest ghost of a bitter laugh from Mlle. Mirkovics. A pained look crossed the Queen’s face, but before she could speak, the sheikh’s voice was heard on the other side of the curtain, very close to the ground. “Let the Princess pardon the presumption of her servant, but word is come for the Prince of the Jews, entreating him to return immediately to Es Sham. The messenger has travelled day and night.” Mlle. Mirkovics interpreted the words, and the Queen’s eyes filled with tears as they met Cyril’s. He had made an involuntary movement towards the door, but her gaze of entreaty drew him back. “I am at your commands, madame,” he said, with forced calmness. “If I ask you, you will stay?” she said, too low for the rest to hear, and her eyes marked, almost with agony, the struggle in his face.