than twenty-one, and as she stood there, she looked like a drooping lily, her eyes cast sadly to the ground, her gentle breast heaving discernably. I gazed upon her, and forgot all else on earth; yea, even the beautiful Catherine Lucio and the wonderful rugs of Shiraz. Well, that evening the dainty slave, Agrippa, became mine. I gave her, at once, her freedom and told her of the great love which had awakened in my heart. She wept upon my shoulder at my goodness, and that moment was the happiest I had ever known. In the morning, at sunrise, we were married, and at once, with my little wife, I set off on my return to Constantine. I had gone off in search of rare rugs, but had brought back rare love instead. Such was the mother of Berenice, born a princess in the guise of a slave."
Sorcha's voice softened till it was scarcely audible. "She is dead now," he murmured sadly. "She died when Berenice was born. Yonder on the hillside she lies buried, and that is why I will never leave the island."
The Armenian lapsed into silence, and it was several moments before Anniston spoke.
Then he said, "You warned me against staying at Constantine. What you have spoken is very interesting, yet it does not explain the mystery."
"The danger is from Abdulla Pasha. He is a degenerate, a swindler with murder in his heart. He is plotting my destruction to regain possession of the jewels."
Menehem Sorcha was interrupted by the Jew,
