Next morning she ordered her servants to admit none but the old dervish, and to close every door as soon as he had entered.
Shortly afterwards, Azrael with her retinue of servants arrived at the mosque, and a few moments after she had disappeared behind the trellised railings the form of the old dervish appeared in the street, hobbling along with his crutch till he reached the kiosk. Feriz Beg perceived him through the window, and sent everyone from the room that he might remain alone with him.
The dervish entered, closed the door behind him, let down the tapestries, took off his false beard and false raiment, and there before Feriz—tremulous, blushing, and shamefaced—stood the odalisk.
"Thou hast sent for me," she stammered softly, "and behold—here I am!"
"I would beg something of thee," said Feriz, half leaning on his elbow.
"Demand my life!" cried the odalisk impetuously, "and I will lay it at thy feet!" and at these words she flung herself at the foot of the divan on which the youth was sitting.
"I ask thee for nothing less than thy life. Once thou saidst that thou didst love me. Is that true now also?"
"Is it not possible to love thee, and yet live?"
"Say then that I might love thee if I knew thee better. Good! I wish to know thee."
The damsel regarded the youth tremblingly, waiting to hear what he would say to her.