Time flies under such circumstances, and hence it is John suddenly exclaims: 

“I declare, it’s after nine o’clock.”

“And my headache is gone.”

At this both laugh.

“You must be a wizard, John, to charm it away so completely,” she declares.

“I trust I shall always be as successful in the days to come,” breathes John, and this of course causes a blush to sweep over the fair maid’s face.

He hurries to his room to prepare for what is before him.  Deep in his heart arises a prayer for success.  Again that feeling of anticipation sweeps over him.  Remembering former disappointments, he endeavors to subdue his hopes and to prepare for another set back, but this does not prevent him at times from indulging in dreams of happiness.

It is just half-past nine when he reaches the door of the hotel.

Mustapha Cadi is there, looking confident and bearing a small bundle.  Again, in a dark corner, John assumes an Arab covering, while his conductor proceeds to alter his own looks so that any whom they meet may not know who the tall Arab is.

So they tread the lanes of the hill-side town.  Just as on the previous night, they meet Arabs, Moors, Kabyles, Jews and negroes.  The silence is like that of the tomb, and yet the interior of more than one house doubtless presents a spectacle gay enough to please any lover of light and color, of lovely women, of rippling fountains, sweet flowers that load the air with their incense, and all the accessories a Moorish court can devise, for these people, while keeping the exterior of their dwellings plain, spend money lavishly upon the interior.

Now they are at the wall, and Mustapha gives the signal clearly; indeed, John fancies the hilt of the knife meets the stone with more force than is necessary, or else his ears deceive him.

The signal is heard, is answered, and in another minute they are inside the wall.

As they walk along behind their guide John whispers to the Arab: 

“On my word, I believe the fellow neglected to quite secure the door in the wall,” to which remark Mustapha replies in low tones: 

“Presumably he knows his business, monsieur; anyhow, it concerns us not at all.”

Which John takes as a gentle reminder that these Arabs are very particular not to interfere with things that belong to another.

He says no more.

They reach the central room, opening upon the court where plashes the fountain.

The guide stops.

Upon the scented air comes the notes of a musical instrument, a mandolin, and the chords are peculiarly sad and yet so very full of music.

Then a voice breaks forth—­such singing John has heard only in his dreams—­it is a voice of wondrous power, sympathetic and sweet, a voice that would haunt a man forever.

John knows no Moorish maidens can sing that song, and his heart gives a wild throb as the conviction is suddenly forced upon him that at last, after these weary years of waiting, after his search over half the world, he is now listening to the voice that hushed his infantile cries, and fell upon his ears like a benison.