His slumber was at length disturbed by the pressure of a gentle grasp upon his arm. He opened his eyes and perceived that there was an object standing between him and the light, which had already begun to dispel the gloom of the capacious apartment in which he lay. Unable to guess what such a visit could portend, he remained motionless, though not entirely without some painful apprehensions of mischief. After an interval of a few moments, the hand was removed from his arm and placed upon his brow. The tender pressure, the smoothness of the palm, the feminine texture and delicate movement of the fingers, convinced him in an instant that it was the hand of woman, but not of her whom he had looked upon the previous evening with a loathing so absolute that his very blood curdled, and whose fingers would have rather pressed upon his forehead like the hard-pointed talons of a harpy, than with the soft and thrilling impress of an angel’s touch.
That touch made every nerve thrill with emotion. The stranger leaned over him as if to hear from his breathing whether he slept profoundly or not. Her breath was as the air of Paradise. He could not be mistaken. There was an inexplicable but infallible sympathy which assured him,—with that mysterious power of conviction communicated how we know not, but still more powerful than any arising from positive testimony,—that the being before him was something far above the ordinary level of human nature. He listened instinctively to catch the music of her voice; his breath was for the moment suspended lest the least sound from her lips should escape his ear. He was in a waking trance, the more delicious from its succeeding to reflections which had so painfully harassed him.
“Stranger!” at length said a soft voice in a tone that seemed to come from the throat of a Peri.
“Who is it that calls me?” asked the prisoner, in a scarcely audible whisper.
“One who has compassion upon your condition, and would give you the means of freedom if you are disposed to embrace them.”
“Shall we not be overheard by those holy sleepers who are lying round yonder embers?”
“No; they are lapped in too profound a slumber to be easily roused.”
“To whom do I address myself?”
“To the granddaughter of Bistamia, who would escape with you the most odious of all slaveries. You will, no doubt, be surprised that I speak thus freely to a stranger, but mine is a desperate position, and I seek its alleviation under any circumstances. To-morrow, when the fakeers shall have quitted these walls, which they will do to engage the Emperor’s troops, I may see you again. I have sought you now to apprise you that a friend is at hand, bent upon your release. To-morrow we meet—farewell!” And her aërial figure glided through the gloom, without leaving the faintest echo of her footsteps, like a bright mist in a summer eve over the surface of a calm lake, upon which the mountains have projected their gigantic shadows.
Shortly after the morning had cast its fresh light into the gloomy hall the fakeers awoke, and rising from their hard bed, each with a sudden motion of the different limbs, caused the joints to snap with a sound like the cracking of nuts in rapid succession; after which they seated themselves, crossed their legs, and began to smoke, passing the tube from mouth to mouth, every one inhaling the luxurious narcotic from the same instrument. After a while Bistamia entered.