“Oh, mademoiselle, it is excellent. Do go and put it on at once. I will wait, only do make haste. I am dancing with excitement.”
Cecil went away smiling to the room where she had passed the night, and with Um Yusuf’s help no time was lost in putting on the rejected dress. Over all came the great white sheet in which it had been wrapped, replacing the old blue wrapper, and Cecil returned to her pupil, who, if not actually dancing, was certainly fidgeting with impatience.
“At last, mademoiselle! Oh, come, come.”
“But where are we going, Bey?” asked Cecil.
“To the Palace, of course, mademoiselle. Where else should we go?”
“But isn’t this Mosul?” she cried. Azim Bey laughed uproariously.
“But, mademoiselle, it is Baghdad—our own beautiful Baghdad.”
“But the people all talked Kurdish,” gasped Cecil.
“Because you came down from the mountains with the harem of Khalil Khan, the Kurdish chief, who is to remain here as a hostage for his tribe, mademoiselle.”
“But where are they now?”