He scooped in his voluminous breeches’ pockets, brought out a handful of trinkets and tossed them into her lap. The girl stared at him, then at the treasures, and drew a sharp breath. They were her own, the jewelry he had wrenched from her on that wild night of carnage three months before. “You thought I had sold them—eh?” he laughed. “No, no, my dear; it very nearly came to it, but not quite. They are safe now and yours again—see?” He seized her wrists and worked the bangles on, snapped the crude black necklace round her neck and hung the elaborate gold one over it, kissed her full on the quivering mouth. “Yours again, for always.” She ran the plump black beads through her fingers, her breathing quickened. She glanced at him sideways, shyly; there was an odd light in her eyes. She swayed a little towards him, then the corners of her mouth twitched and curved upwards in an adorable bow; she was smiling, smiling! He held out his arms to her and she toppled into them, burying her face in his bosom. “My lord!” said she. The proud lady had surrendered at last! “Osman, Osman Bâki, what now?” thought Ortho and crushed her to him. The girl made a faint, pained exclamation and put her hand to her throat. “Did I hurt you, my own?” said Ortho, contrite. “No, my lord, but you have snapped my necklace,” she laughed. “It is nothing.” He picked up the black beads, wondering how he could have done it, and she put them down on the rug beside her. “It is a poor thing, but a great saint has blessed it. My king, take me in your arms again.” They sat close together while the rosy peaks faded out and the swift winter dusk filled the room, and he told her of the great things he would do. Elation swept him up. Everything seemed possible now with this slim, clinging beauty to solace and inspire him. He would trample on and on, scattering opposition like straw, carving his own road, a captain of destiny. She believed in his bravest boasts. Her lord had but to will a thing and it was done. Who could withstand her lord? “Not I, not I,” said she. “Hearken, tall one. I said to my heart night and day, ‘Hate this Roumi askar, hate him, hate him!’—but my heart would not listen, it was wiser than I.” She nestled luxuriously in his arms, crooning endearments, melting and passionate, sweeter than honey in the honey-comb. It grew dark and cold. He went to the door and called for the brazier. “And tea,” Ourida added. “I would serve you with tea, my heart’s joy.” The negress brought both. Ourida rubbed her head against his shoulder. “Sweetmeats?” she cooed. He jerked his last blanquils to the slave with the order. Ourida squatted cross-legged on a pile of cushions and poured out the sweet mint tea, handed him his cup with a mock salaam. He did obeisance as before a Sultana, and she rippled with delight. They made long complimentary speeches to each other after the manner of the court, played with each other’s hands, were very childish and merry.