“No, no, Heaven-Born! Be careful!”
And he had whispered to her at length, winding up with “I do not know his reasons. I am his servant. I listen and I obey. And so I gave thee the message he gave me. Come with me—at once—Heaven-Born!”
Just for a moment the princess had hesitated.
“I—I can't go alone with thee,” she had said, but with a light in her eyes, as if she would like to be persuaded that she could.
“Why not?”
“It is against the customs …”
“Of the harem! Of course!”
The man had laughed ironically, had grumbled, then, with a shrug of his shoulders, had continued:
“It is against my orders. But thou art the Princess Aziza Nurmahal, the ruler of this land, and, if thou dost insist, take a servant along—one servant—perhaps this little slave girl?”
“No. I shall take my chief eunuch!”
“Good. That should be enough to guard even as lacy and twisted a thing as Tamerlani propriety and Tamerlani etiquette. But—thou must hurry. Why? Who am I to know, Heaven-Born? I am only a rough Afghan executing the orders he gave me. Come—and tell that little ball of quivering, soft nothings over there”—indicating the slave girl who was trying to catch a word now and then—“to be silent about the whole affair—silent as the sands.”
The princess had spoken to the slave, enjoining her to secrecy, had left, and had returned, shortly afterwards, veiled from head to foot in a swathing, disfiguring
