“He is my adopted son, oh Queen!  Shall he be brought in before thee?”

“Nay.  How long hath the fever taken him?”

“This is the third day.”

“Good; then let him lie another day.  Then will he perchance throw it off by his own strength, and that is better than that I should cure him, for my medicine is of a sort to shake the life in its very citadel.  If, however, by to-morrow night, at that hour when the fever first took him, he doth not begin to mend, then will I come to him and cure him.  Stay, who nurses him?”

“Our white servant, him whom Billali names the Pig; also,” and here I spoke with some little hesitation, “a woman named Ustane, a very handsome woman of this country, who came and embraced him when she first saw him, and hath stayed by him ever since, as I understand is the fashion of thy people, oh Queen.”

“My people! speak not to me of my people,” she answered hastily; “these slaves are no people of mine, they are but dogs to do my bidding till the day of my deliverance comes; and, as for their customs, naught have I to do with them.  Also, call me not Queen—­I am weary of flattery and titles—­call me Ayesha, the name hath a sweet sound in mine ears, it is an echo from the past.  As for this Ustane, I know not.  I wonder if it be she against whom I was warned, and whom I in turn did warn?  Hath she—­stay, I will see;” and, bending forward, she passed her hand over the font of water and gazed intently into it.  “See,” she said quietly, “is that the woman?”

I looked into the water, and there, mirrored upon its placid surface, was the silhouette of Ustane’s stately face.  She was bending forward, with a look of infinite tenderness upon her features, watching something beneath her, and with her chestnut locks falling on to her right shoulder.

“It is she,” I said, in a low voice, for once more I felt much disturbed at this most uncommon sight.  “She watches Leo asleep.”

“Leo!” said Ayesha, in an absent voice; “why, that is ‘lion’ in the Latin tongue.  The old man hath named happily for once.  It is very strange,” she went on, speaking to herself, “very.  So like—­but it is not possible!” With an impatient gesture she passed her hand over the water once more.  It darkened, and the image vanished silently and mysteriously as it had risen, and once more the lamplight, and the lamplight only, shone on the placid surface of that limpid, living mirror.

“Hast thou aught to ask me before thou goest, oh Holly?” she said, after a few moments’ reflection.  “It is but a rude life that thou must live here, for these people are savages, and know not the ways of cultivated man.  Not that I am troubled thereby, for behold my food,” and she pointed to the fruit upon the little table.  “Naught but fruit doth ever pass my lips—­fruit and cakes of flour, and a little water.  I have bidden my girls to wait upon thee.  They are mutes, thou knowest, deaf are they and dumb, and therefore