Since she had worn the ugly ring of Safti she had suffered no pain from her eyes, and a strange certainty had gradually come upon her that, while the emerald was in her possession, she would be safe from the terrible disease of which she had so long lived in terror. Yet Safti would not let her have the ring. And she could not live for ever in Tunis. Already she had prolonged her stay abroad, and was due in Russia, where her anxious husband awaited her. She knew not what to do. Suddenly an idea occurred to her. It made her flush red and tingle with shame. She glanced up, and saw the lustrous eyes of Abdul fixed intently upon her. As he left her at the door of the hotel he said,
“The Princess will stay long in Tunis?”
“Another week at least, Abdul,” she answered carelessly. “You can go home now. I shall not want you any more to-day.”
And she walked into the hotel without looking at him again. When she was in her room she sent for a list of the steamers sailing daily from Tunis for the different ports of Africa and Europe. Presently she came to the bedside of Madame de Rosnikoff.
“Countess,” she said, “you are no better?”
“How can I be? The drains are bad, and the tea here is too strong.”
“There is a boat that leaves for Sicily at midnight—for Marsala. Shall we go in her?”
The old lady bounded on her pillow.
“Straight on by Italy to Russia?” she cried joyfully.
The Princess nodded. A fierce excitement shone in her pretty eyes, and her little hands were trembling as she looked down at the dull emerald of Safti.