"Hush, there is the sound of a key in the door," said Zulfikar, "step back."
The two men had to pull Sanga-moarta from the door. This opened noiselessly and a woman stepped forth leading a panther by a spiked collar of gold. Sanga-moarta had good cause to call her a fairy. A magnificent woman stood there in delicate Oriental garb. The long gold tassel of her red fez fell down over her white turban; above her ermine-embroidered caftan gleamed her ivory white shoulders; her movements were sinuous and bewitching. The three men held their breath while the woman passed by without noticing them.
"Ha, there she is!" whispered Zulfikar, when she had passed.
"Who is she? So you know her," said Clement.
"Azraele, once the favorite of Corsar Bey."
"Where are we then?"
"Be still, or she will hear us."
Meantime the woman had reached the pool, seated herself on a stone bench and loosed her turban. The dark curls fell down over her shoulders.
Sanga-moarta's hot panting was heard in the darkness. The panther lay quietly at the feet of his mistress, his wise head resting on his forepaws. Azraele now took her gay Persian shawl from her waist and made ready to lay aside her caftan. But first she made a few steps toward the cliff, which shut her off from the sight of the men. Sanga-moarta was ready to plunge after her.
"You are crazy," said Zulfikar in his ear. "Are you going to betray us by your curiosity?"