Toward morning she fell asleep, slept for an hour, started up in awful fear. And saw the double-locked door opposite the foot of her bed slowly opening of its own accord.
Into the brightly illuminated room stepped a graceful young man in full evening dress carrying over his left arm an overcoat, and in his other hand a top hat and silver tipped walking-stick.
With one bound the girl swung herself from the bed to the carpet and clutched at the pistol under her pillow.
“Sanang!” she cried in a terrible voice.
“Keuke Mongol!” he said, smilingly.
For a moment they confronted each other in the brightly lighted bedroom, then, partly turning, he cast a calm glance at the open door behind him; and, as though moved by a wind, the door slowly closed. And she heard the key turn of itself in the lock, and saw the bolt slide smoothly into place again.
Her power of speech came back to her presently—only a broken whisper at first: “Do you think I am afraid of your accursed magic?” she managed to gasp. “Do you think I am afraid of you, Sanang?”
“You are afraid,” he said serenely.
“You lie!”
“No, I do not lie. To one another the Yezidees never lie.”