Sange Moarte was right in calling her a fairy.
Before them stood a dazzlingly beautiful woman in oriental déshabillé. Her locks were enveloped in a red fez, the long gold tassels of which fell across her white turban over her pale face; her ivory-smooth shoulders gleamed forth from the sleeves of her short, ermine-embroidered kaftan; her eyes sparkled in the dark; every movement of her lithe body was serpentine, fascinating, maddening.
The three men held their breath. The girl passed by without observing them.
"Ah, that is she," whispered Zülfikar in amazement, when she had gone.
"Who? Do you know her?" asked Clement.
"It is Azrael, Corsar Beg's former favourite."
"What a place for her to be in!"
"Pst! she'll hear us."
Meanwhile the girl had reached the basin where the subterraneous waters poured their mingled flood, sat down on a stone bench, and commenced to unwind her turban. Her jasper-black hair fell down over her shoulders.
Sange Moarte's hot panting resounded through the darkness.