shame, and shame with disease … the slums of Tamerlanistan—the mildewed spot in the healthy plant of the town.
Thus Afghan, eunuch, and princess had left the sheltered security of the palace, the latter's heart beating like the heart of a girl in finishing school who, for the first time in her life, unchaperoned, unbeknown to parents and teachers, goes to a matinée with a member of the male sex; while the little slave girl had looked after them in a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, but obeying the injunction of silence and secrecy which Aziza Nurmahal had put upon her.
The little slave girl had been rather prey to conflicting emotions. For she had overheard some of the Afghan charpadar's words, and less hedged in by inhibiting conventions, had been conscious of a faint, marring taint of treachery in the Afghan's hearty words and jovial manner. But she feared the princess' quick tongue—just a shade less than she feared the old nurse's quick hand.
So she had waited, nervously expectant, wishing for the princess' return; and then, two hours later, excited sounds had come from the palace courtyard, cries, and a question peaking out from the turmoil:
“Mahsud! Mahsud Hakki! What has happened—for the love of Allah?”
And Ayesha Zemzem, who had been peacefully dozing over a soothing pipe of yellow Latakia tobacco cut with dawamesk-hashish, had jumped up, immediately wide-awake as is the habit of old people, had rushed down the stairs, out to the courtyard, and
