terrible of punishments, for the victims, seldom killed outright, were left to die in agony with the tropical noonday sun shining down mercilessly upon their unprotected bodies."
Mochanda stopped abruptly in his narration. They had reached the end of the valley. He gripped Anniston's shoulder.
"Is it not beautiful?" he asked.
Far in the distance, the faint, mist-covered hills of Kishm were dimly discernible above the fierce, fiery gleam of the Persian Gulf. Here and there stately sycamores, larches and oleanders swayed gently in the breeze. Patches of poppies, irises and carnations gave exquisite coloring to the picture. Beneath the cool, inviting shade of bushy palms flowed a tiny natural rivulet upon which a gondola gently glided, the gondoliers swaying rythmatically with one accord.
Under the silken canopy which partially covered the center of the boat, a dark-haired maiden, dressed in a long white, clinging robe peculiar to the Orient, reclined lazily among velvet cushions, gazing listlessly out upon the waters.
"Behold my mistress, Berenice," whispered Mochanda, as the boat gradually approached. A moment later she had discovered them and ordered the gondoliers to row her to their side. Both men stood hatless as she alighted with the help of Mochanda's arm, and Anniston gazed open-mouthed and speechless at her frail, enchanting beauty. Her dress was simple, yet not without "some marks of costliness." Here and there over her long, loose-flowing robe hung
