Over all was the sky like a bright, blue canopy, studded with jets of brilliant light.
The night air was calm and sweet, and Girzilla felt a soothing influence pass over her.
With all the passionate fervor of her race she burst forth into poetic declamation.
Clothing her ideas in Oriental language, developing the most beautiful imagery, she apostrophized the sky and the stars, speaking of the sky as the million-eyed goddess, looking down through the millions of stars on the earth, and directing the destinies of men.
She thought she was unheard, but standing in the shadow of a tent was Ibrahim.
He was entranced.
“More beauteous than the daughters of Iran! More eloquent than the houris of Istaphan! Speak to me, and tell me who thou art.”
Girzilla heard the voice.
It was not that of Madcap Max.
Who, then, could be speaking?