“Quick! The Roumi! In Allah’s name, save him!” she cried, turning to the gorgeously-attired Soudanese who stood near, like a gigantic statue.
“Follow,” he commanded; and, crossing the room, drew aside some silken hangings, disclosing another small door, of the existence of which I had been unaware.
I turned. Zoraida had flung herself with languorous abandon upon her divan, with her hand pressed to her bejewelled forehead. Her wistful eyes followed me, and as I waved her a last farewell, she said—
“Go, my Amîn! May Allah give thee perfect peace!” Through the open door we passed, and the negro, closing it, bolted it from the outside, leaving us in total darkness.
“Keep silence. Grasp my arm, and I will lead thee,” said the man, but ere he had uttered the words, there came from the harem a loud, piercing shriek—the cry of a woman!
It was Zoraida’s voice!
“Hark!” I gasped, with bated breath. “Listen! That voice was hers! Let us return.”
“No,” he replied gruffly. “That is impossible.”
“But the cry was one of terrible agony!”
“Slaves of the harem never interfere without orders. Death is the penalty of the Infidel found within the precincts sacred to the women,” he answered coldly.