“She is as the heavens at sunrise when the light wraps the world in softest colouring. Her eyes are the blue of the night in which shines the morning star, her mouth as the sun-kissed pomegranate, her teeth as shimmering pearls. Her hair! The houris which wait in paradise to reward the faithful have not such hair as she. It is as the web of the spider gilded by the sunlight, as the corn glowing in the noonday sun, and, in its waywardness, twineth about the heart of men as a child’s fingers about the mother’s breast.”
The men secretly touched each other as they watched the effect of the man’s words upon the woman who ruled them with no gentle hand. Thrones built upon a foundation of consideration towards others are rocky enough at any time, but there is absolutely no security for the monarch who uses his sceptre as a stick with which to drive his subjects.
Zarah sat back in her chair, too primitive in her love to try to hide the jealousy which consumed her.
“Who is she and what position does she hold in the expedition?”
“She rules men, O mistress, and is the granddaughter of the aged one.”
“His name?”
“It taketh a twisted tongue, O mistress, to pronounce it. I have essayed and failed. He is a great Sheikh from Inglistan, the land where, ’tis said, the heavens drop water without ceasing. His men are well armed; his camels, over which devil-possessed animal the white man with a scar has a strange control, are of the best; his men content, and averse to speech with strangers. They have started; a great caravan awaits them at the port of Jiddah; I hastened by swiftest camel to bring thee the news.”
Zarah sat silent for a moment, then called the names of six of her most trusted and unscrupulous followers, and sharply ordered the hall to be cleared for the space of one hour.
“And the Damascenes, mistress?” asked Al-Asad, who had mounted the dais at his mistress’s call and stood, gigantic, powerful, behind her, ready to do her bidding.
Zarah frowned.