The face of the Arabian turned livid; her eyes wandered. "He is mine; mine! Beyond the stars, where no Christian may come with her beauty! Beyond the stars, where is Paradise and rest!"
She fell upon Iftikhar's dead form; one paroxysm, one groan; her hand was resting on the emir's face, her lips close to his. Musa laid his hand above her heart, drew it back and said nothing. Then again a long silence, while he examined the silver vial.
"Strychnine," he said softly; "the Egyptians often use it. Swifter than a falling star."
Mary buried her face in her hands, and swayed while she sobbed in her fathomless grief. "Holy St. Theodore, have mercy; Mother of God, have mercy; Jesus Christ, have mercy! It is my fault—mine! I cannot bear it!"
"Yours? Never, Star of the Greeks," protested Musa. "How was it you that led Iftikhar to his madness, and put frenzy in this woman's heart?"
But Mary wiped her eyes, and told all that had befallen. How she had gone into the streets; how Zeyneb had seen, had told Iftikhar, and sent him to his death. Before the Spaniard could reply, another strange step was on the threshold. It was that of a Nubian in scarlet surcoat, giant tall,—Ammar, third in command.
"In Allah's name," was his demand as he entered, and recoiled in his horror at the sight, "what means this rumor on the streets? Where is the Cid Iftikhar Eddauleh?"
"His body?—there!" answered the Andalusian, pointing downward. "Allah accounts with his soul."
"Mashallah!" and Ammar nigh drew his cimeter, "you have slain the emir, commandant of the city!"
"He rushed on ruin, good comrade. It was a private quarrel, and he is wrong. Ask of these guardsmen, is it so."