"I don't want to sleep, Nada," she protested. "Let's talk awhile. You promised to tell me about him—Jotan, I mean. I keep thinking about him—how he acted, staring at me the way he did."
Nada smiled, and patted the hand on her arm. She had been thinking of her only son—of him whom she had last seen as a little boy. She had wanted to overcome a strange reluctance to question Dylara about him; what he had been like, if he was big like his father ... little things that meant much to a mother.
"I will do the best I can," she said. "What I say will be only what is repeated among the slaves and guards.
"Jotan's home is in Ammad—about which I have already told you. His father is a nobleman there—one of the most powerful and influential men in that country. Jotan is well liked by all who know him; they say his followers would die in his service and count themselves honored."
"I think I can understand that," said Dylara dreamily. "There is something about him that takes hold of you—awakens your imagination. Many girls must care a great deal for him."
Nada glanced sharply at her, and was on the point of making some comment, when there came a sudden brief rap at the closed door.
"I wonder who that can be," she said, frowning. Rising, she crossed to the door and drew it open.
A guard in a grayish-white tunic stood at the threshold. Behind him, half-concealed by the shadows of the hall, was a second man.
"Urim," said the guard gruffly, "wishes the slave-girl Dylara brought to him at once."
For some reason this unexpected summons alarmed Nada. "I do not understand. What does he want of her?"