“Drawn!” whispered Cyril. “Though it is a little hard to have one’s best cigars mistaken for the stuff these fellows smoke, isn’t it?”
“Markor! Zachary! Johannes! which of you is smoking out there?” cried the voice, which Mansfield recognised as that of the lady of the gateway, in Arabic, and her face appeared at the window. She recoiled precipitately when she saw Cyril, who bowed to her with the utmost politeness.
“You here!” she cried, her eyes dilating as they had done before. “What do you want?”
“An audience of her Majesty, mademoiselle.”
“I thought so. I felt sure you would come cringing back to the woman you had wronged, but you shall not see her. I will not have her made miserable a second time by you.”
“Mademoiselle, I acknowledge you readily as a true prophet—I will even confess that your reproaches are deserved—but it lies with her Majesty, and not with you, to grant or refuse me an interview.”
“It does lie with me. I refuse to submit your request to her Majesty, do you understand? I take upon myself the responsibility of excluding you from her presence. You shall not tear open the cruel wound you once made. I will have you dragged back again to your prison.”
“Pardon me, mademoiselle. I am master of the situation at present, for I fancy the Arabs would obey my orders—perhaps as readily as your own. In any case, the sounds of a scuffle would attract the Queen’s attention.”
“I have no fear of the fidelity of the Arabs, Count.”
“Then pray test it, mademoiselle. I ask merely that my presence here should come to her Majesty’s knowledge. Her pleasure is my law. If she refuses to grant me an audience, I will go away without another word.”