“Don’t mention it,” said Fulkeward affably. “You see, you have come on business. You’re going to paint the Princess’s picture; and I daresay this blessed old rascal knows that I want nothing except to look at his mistress and wonder what she’s made of.” “What she’s made of?” echoed Gervase in surprise. “Don’t you think she’s made like other women?” “No; can’t say I do. She seems all fire and vapor and eyes in the middle, don’cher know. Oh, I’m an ass--always was--but that’s the feeling she gives me. Ta-ta! Wish you a pleasant morning!” He nodded and strolled away, and Gervase hesitated yet another moment, looking full at the Nubian, who returned him stare for stare. “_Maintenant?_” he began. “_Oui, maintenant_,” echoed the Nubian. “_La Princesse, où est elle?_” “_Là!_” and the Nubian pointed down a long, dark passage beyond which there seemed to be the glimmer of green palms and other foliage. “_Elle vous attend, Monsieur Armand Gervase! Entrez! Suivez!_” Slowly Gervase passed in, and the great tomb-like door closed upon him with a heavy clang. The whole long, bright day passed, and he did not reappear; not a human foot crossed the lonely street and nothing was seen there all through the warm sunshiny hours save the long, black shadows on the pavement, which grew longer and darker as the evening fell. CHAPTER VII. /Within/ the palace of the Princess Ziska a strange silence reigned. In whatever way the business of her household was carried on, it was evidently with the most absolute noiselessness, for not a sound disturbed the utter stillness environing her. She herself, clad in white garments that clung about her closely, displaying the perfect outlines of her form, stood waiting for her guest in a room that was fairly dazzling to the eye in its profusion of exquisitely assorted and harmonized colors, as well as impressive to the mind in its suggestions of the past rather than of the present. Quaint musical instruments of the fashion of thousands of years ago hung on the walls or lay on brackets and tables, but no books such as our modern time produces were to be seen; only tied-up bundles of papyri and curious little tablets of clay inscribed with mysterious hieroglyphs. Flowers adorned every corner--many of them strange blossoms which a connoisseur would have declared to be unknown in Egypt,--palms and ferns and foliage of every description were banked up against the walls in graceful profusion, and from the latticed windows the light filtered through colored squares, giving a kind of rainbow-effect to the room, as though it were a scene in a dream rather than a reality. And even more dream-like than her surroundings was the woman who awaited the approach of her visitor, her eyes turned towards the door--fiery eyes filled with such ardent watchfulness as seemed to burn the very air. The eyes of a hawk gleaming on its prey,--the eyes of a famished tiger in the dark, were less fraught with terrific