El-Râmi meanwhile slowly ascended the stairs to the first floor, and there on the narrow landing paused, listening. There was not a sound in the house,--the delicious music of the strange “harvest-song” had ceased, though to El-Râmi’s ears there still seemed to be a throb of its melody in the air, like perfume left from the carrying by of flowers. And with this vague impression upon him he listened,--listened as it were to the deep silence; and as he stood in this attentive attitude, his eyes rested on a closed door opposite to him,--a door which might, if taken off its hinges and exhibited at some museum, have carried away the palm for perfection in panel-painting. It was so designed as to resemble a fine trellis-work, hung with pale clambering roses and purple passion-flowers,--on the upper half among the blossoms sat a meditative cupid, pressing a bud against his pouting lips, while below him, stretched in full-length desolation on a bent bough, his twin brother wept childishly over the piteous fate of a butterfly that lay dead in his curled pink palm. El-Râmi stared so long and persistently at the pretty picture that it might have been imagined he was looking at it for the first time and was absorbed in admiration, but truth to tell he scarcely saw it. His thoughts were penetrating beyond all painted semblances of beauty,--and,--as in the case of his young brother Féraz,--those thoughts were speedily answered. A key turned in the lock,--the door opened, and a tall old woman, bronze-skinned, black-eyed, withered, uncomely yet imposing of aspect, stood in the aperture. “Enter, El-Râmi!” she said in a low yet harsh voice--“The hour is late,--but when did ever the lateness of hours change or deter your sovereign will! Yet, truly as God liveth, it is hard that I should seldom be permitted to pass a night in peace!” El-Râmi smiled indifferently, but made no reply, as it was useless to answer Zaroba. She was stone-deaf, and therefore not in a condition to be argued with. She preceded him into a small ante-room, provided with no other furniture than a table and chair;--one entire side of the wall, however, was hung with a magnificent curtain of purple velvet bordered in gold. On the table were a slate and pencil, and these implements El-Râmi at once drew towards him. “Has there been any change to-day?” he wrote. Zaroba read the words. “None,” she replied. “She has not moved?” “Not a finger.” He paused, pencil in hand,--then he wrote-- “You are ill-tempered. You have your dark humour upon you.” Zaroba’s eyes flashed, and she threw up her skinny hands with a wrathful gesture.