“You are Yulun. You are alive and real——” He looked at Tressa: “She is real, isn’t she?” And, to Yulun: “Where do you come from?” The girl replied seriously: “I come from Yian.” She turned to Tressa with a dazzling smile: “Thou knowest, my heart’s gold, how it was I came. Tell thy dear lord in thine own way, so that it shall be simple for his understanding.... And now—because my visit is ending—I think thy dear lord should sleep. Bid him sleep, my heart’s gold!” At that calm suggestion Cleves sat upright on the bed,—or attempted to. But sank back gently on his pillow and met there a dark, delicious rush of drowsiness. He made an effort—or tried to: the smooth, sweet tide of sleep swept over him to the eyelids, leaving him still and breathing evenly on his pillow. The two girls leaned over and looked down at him. “Thy dear lord,” murmured Yulun. “Does he love thee, rose-bud of Yian?” “No,” said Tressa, under her breath. “Does he know thou art damned, heart of gold?” “He says no soul is ever really harmed,” whispered Tressa. “Kai! Has he never heard of the Slayer of Souls?” exclaimed Yulun incredulously. “My lord maintains that neither the Assassin of Khorassan nor the Sheiks-el-Djebel of the Eight Towers, nor their dark prince Erlik, can have power over God to slay the human soul.” “Tokhta, Rose of Yian! Our souls were slain there in the Yezidee temple.” Tressa looked down at Cleves: “My dear lord says no,” she said under her breath. “And—Sanang?” Tressa paled: “His mind and mine did battle. I tore my heart from his grasp. I have laid it, bleeding, at my dear lord’s feet. Let God judge between us, Yulun.” “There was a day,” whispered Yulun, “when Prince Sanang went to the Lake of the Ghosts.” Tressa, very pallid, looked down at her sleeping husband. She said: “Prince Sanang came to the Lake of the Ghosts. The snow of the cherry-trees covered the young world. “The water was clear as sunlight; and the lake was afire with scarlet carp.... Yulun—beloved—the nightingale sang all night long—all night long.... Then I saw Sanang shining, all gold, in the moonlight.... May God remember him in hell!” “May God remember him.” “Sanang Noïane. May he be accursed in the Namaz Ga!” “May he be tormented in Jehaunum!—Sanang, Slayer of Souls.” Tressa leaned forward on the bed, stretched herself out, and laid her face gently across her husband’s feet, touching them with her lips. Then she straightened herself and sat up, supported by one hand, and looking silently down at the sleeping man. “No soul shall die,” she said. “Niaz!” “Is it written?” asked Yulun, surprised. “My lord has said it.” “Allahou Ekber,” murmured Yulun; “thy lord is only a man.” Tressa said: “Neither the Tekbir nor the fatha, nor the warning of Khidr, nor the Yacaz of the Khagan, nor even the prayers of the Ten Imaums are of any value to me unless my dear lord confirms the truth of them with his own lips.” “And Erlik? Is he nothing, then?”