Strange, weird music of the desert played by slaves.
It is the picturesque setting of a strange tale—a tale of inward struggle.
The Sultan—lying amid splendor, vivid coloring of the East—softened by the night's mysterious light.
Among flowers and heavily-scented perfumes.
His dancing girls have left—his bronzed face—framed in black hair—his dark eyes—wear a look, an expression of satisfied desire—Life holds nothing new for him—only the continuation of old pleasures.
At last a heavy portière is lifted.
Perhaps you were expecting an oriental girl of dark beauty—a slave—
The girl advancing to the Sultan's couch is European—a Russian of noble birth.
Among the palms of the Orient—almost as a slave she sojourns in the palace of the Sultan.