Mary took a step toward him, snatched him by the shoulder, whirled his face toward the door in an instant.
"Away!" was her command; "or if Iftikhar did not mock me, the next word I have for him is to ask your head!"
Hakem shuffled out of the room like a whipped hound. To the maids Mary gave not a word—simply pointed toward the passage. The flash in her eyes sufficed. They were gone; and the Greek found herself alone—oh, bliss!—alone!
The room was large, high-domed; the walls covered with gold and colored enamel in fantastic arabesques. Here and there an inscription from one of the poets in silver mosaic. On the silken carpet the feet moved noiselessly. The light trickled through the piercings in the dome, and spread a restful twilight around. There were divans of priceless Chinese silk, an ebony table whereon lay silver and crystal cups and coolers, fruit and honey cakes. Upon the divan lay ready a dress, silk also, plainly prepared for Iftikhar's new favorite, gold lace, jewel embroidery: in France worth a count's ransom; even in Constantinople worthy of the Empress herself. It was very still. Mary sat upon the divan beside the table and rested her face on her hands. She was more weary than one may tell. Despite the care of Iftikhar, the journey had been no easy one. And now this was the end! Here was the golden cage in which the bright bird was to be kept fast! Mary shed no tears now. Iftikhar had given her a pledge. She felt sure he would be patient within reason. But in time? Mary knew herself well enough and Iftikhar well enough to be sure that both were made of mortal stuff. After all, she was his slave—to be sold in the market if he chose. She had taken her vows touching Richard Longsword while life lasted. But was he not dead to her? Perhaps dead to all the world? Did men only die to one another when they stopped eating, talking, and sleeping? She could struggle, could put on her majesty, could say "No" a score of times; but in the end!—what end could there be saving one! So Mary sat in her revery, her thoughts as dark as the ebony table beneath her eyes.
Suddenly, as if awaking from a dream, she heard laughter,—laughter musical as a little stream, but with a mocking, angry tinge that left a sting. Mary lifted her eyes, raised her head. More laughter—louder, still musical. The Greek almost started. Could she not even have sorrow in peace?
"Have I not bidden you all begone?" was her cry, and at last the tears were not far from her eyes; for this defiance was the last drop to her cup of sorrow.
"No," came back a voice, clear and melodious as a zithern note; "no, you have commanded me nothing."
"Then now I say 'away'—leave me alone!"
"How sweet to see you angry! I will not leave you. See! I enter. I wish to look at you face to face."
The curtains at the farther end of the room opened. As they did so a score of little bells upon them tinkled, and Mary saw a woman standing in the mild half-light. Instantly the Greek rose, and the two looked into each other's eyes.