own fate, and no man shall lose his life for my sake unless he desires to do so.'
But he privately put on a coat of mail under his aba, and when he sat down in the harem to await the end he would not let Zehowah take his sword, but laid it upon his feet and sat upright against the wall, looking towards the door.
'Since I have no soul,' he said to himself, 'this is probably the end of all things. But there is no reason why I should not kill as many of these murderers as possible.'
He was gloomy and desponding, however, since he saw that his hour was at hand, and that Zehowah was no nearer to loving him than before. He watched her fingers as she played upon the instrument, and he listened to the soft notes of her voice.
'It is a strange thing,' he thought, 'and I believe that she is not able to love, any more than my sword upon my feet, which is good and true and beautiful, and ever ready to my hand, but is itself cold, having no feeling in it.'
Still Zehowah sang and Khaled heard her song, listening watchfully for a man's tread upon the threshold and looking to see a man's face and the light of steel in the shadow beyond the lamps.
'The night is long,' he said at last, aloud.
'It is not yet midnight,' Zehowah answered. 'But you are tired. Will you not go to rest?'
