The mules, whipped by the fellahs, trot noiselessly towards the fortress; the host ambles after them along the narrow path. The Timariot infantry straggle behind, and quarrel among themselves about the booty which they carry on their shoulders. No one pursues them.
The large oval room is empty. The women of the harem have withdrawn into their own apartments. Azrael is alone.
On quitting her perfumed bath, she has a hammock slung over the fountain, reclines therein, rocks herself luxuriously to and fro, and lets her glowing, snow-white limbs be splashed by the water-jet. She folds her arms across her bosom, and, with a self-complacent smile, watches the diamond jet break against her lithe body as the swaying hammock cuts across it with its charming burden.
The red curtains are let down to keep out the rays of sunset, but a rose-coloured light pervades the room, suffusing every object with a soft and magic hue. The odalisque appears like a rosy water-nymph swinging on a bright lotus-leaf over a fountain of liquid rubies.
The atmosphere of the room is impregnated with a bewitching, love-inspiring perfume. Not a sound is to be heard save the pattering of the water-drops as they fall back into the basin.
All at once the familiar winding of a horn is heard outside. The prancing and neighing of horses in the courtyard scares away the silence. Above the din rises the word of command of a well-known voice. Azrael smiles, and rocks herself still more swiftly in her hammock. A fatal enticement lurks in her eyes as she looks towards the golden-trellised door, and throws back her head.
A minute later, and we hear hasty steps approaching. Impelled by love, Corsar Beg is hastening towards his earthly paradise. The turning of a key is audible in the golden door. Azrael laughs aloud, and rocks herself still more swiftly in her bright-winged hammock.
The shadows of night have descended. Every living thing sleeps soundly. Love alone is wakeful.
“Oh, I fear me! I fear me!” whispers Azrael, clinging still more closely to the breast of the wild Moorish horseman.
“Why dost thou tremble? I am here,” and he embraces her slim waist.
“Hamaliel hath brought me evil dreams,” returns the odalisque. “I dreamt that the Giaours stormed thy castle in the nighttime and murdered thee. I would have hurled myself down from the battlements, but I could not because I was a captive. A Christian held me in his arms! Mashallah! it was frightful!”
“Fear not!” said the Corsar. “The Koran says that only birds can fly, and none can get into this castle without wings. But even if we were surprised thou hast no cause to fear falling into the hands of the Infidel, or being defiled by the touch of the Giaour, for under the ottoman on which we now lie a lunt is laid which goes right down into the powder-chamber. If all were lost, thou hast but to touch that lunt with this night-lamp, and the whole castle with us and our foes would fly into the air.”
“Oh, what a consoling thought!” sighs Azrael, softly pressing her lips to the Corsar’s cheeks, and seeming to slumber once more.
The night-lamp flickers feebly on its tripod, multiplying its own shadow. The watchers snore before the doors.
Suddenly Azrael springs screaming from her couch, dragging the Beg along with her.
“La illah, il allah! Dost thou not hear the noise of the Jinns?” she cries, trembling in every limb.
The Beg stares around him in terror. A tempest is raging outside. The weathercocks creak and rattle. The wind tears the tiles from the summits of the minarets, and hurls them on to the cupolas of the kiosk. The lightning flashes, and the thunder teaches the rocks to tremble.
“Dost thou hear how they howl, those invisible beings, and rattle at the barred and bolted windows with a mighty hand?”
“By the shadow of Allah! I hear them right well,” murmurs the trembling freebooter, with wildly staring eyes.
“Mercy! mercy! Avaunt, ye evil spirits!” cries Azrael, sinking down upon the floor with dishevelled tresses, and stretching wide her naked arms. “Ye shall be whipped with sunbeams and the darkness shall swallow you! Go hence to the Giaours and torture them! May ye break your wings on the horns of our half-moons, as ye whirl past them in your hosts!—Ha, how their eyes flash! Shadow of Allah, conceal us, lest they look upon us with their fiery eyes!”
The big, strong man, all trembling, lies on his face beside Azrael, and hides himself beneath her mantle and her long flowing tresses. His superstitious terror has stolen every feeling of manliness from his breast; he quakes like a child.
“Dost hear! dost hear how they murmur! Repeat rapidly and aloud the prayer of Naama, and stop thy ears that thou mayst not hear what they say!”
At that moment a terrible gust broke one of the panes of glass, and the free invading air began to move the heavy curtains to and fro, and make the lamp flicker.
“Ha! Dost thou see him?” cried Azrael. “Pst! Look not thither! Open not thine eyes! Hide thy face! Duck down by me! Cover thee with my mantle! It is Asasiel, the Angel of Death! Dost thou not feel his cold sigh upon thy cheek? Pst! Be covered! Perchance he will not see thee!”
Corsar Beg clung convulsively to Azrael’s garment, and covered his face with his hands.
“What wouldst thou?” cried Azrael, as if addressing an invisible spirit. “Black shadow, with blue sparkling eyes of fire, for whom dost thou come? There is none here but I. Corsar Beg has not come home! Come later! Come an hour hence! Avaunt, avaunt, black being! May Allah crush thy head in the dust! Come an hour hence, and be forever accursed!”
Corsar dared not open his eyes. Azrael bent half over him, to shield him from the
