rene Highness was too exhausted to
receive so late in the day; she had granted too many audiences that
afternoon.

"And the prince?" he queried. The prince was away hunting by moonlight,
and could not be seen for at least a day. In the interim, Pobloff was
told to make himself at home, as became such a distinguished composer
and artistic plenipotentiary of Balakia's king. Then he was bowed out of
the chamber, down the low malachite staircase, into his supper room. It
was all very disturbing to a man of Pobloff's equable disposition.

He thought of Luga, his little wife, his dove; but not long. She did not
appeal to his heart of hearts; she was a coquette. Pobloff sighed. He
was midway in his mortal life, a dangerous period for susceptible
manhood. He lifted moist eyes to the stars; the night was delicious. He
rested upon a cushioned couch of stone. About him the moonlight painted
the trees, until they seemed like liquefied ermine; the palace arose in
pyramidal surges of marble to the sky, meeting the moonbeams as if in
friendly defiance, and casting them back to heaven with triumphant
reflections. And the stillness, profound as the tomb, was punctuated by
glancing fireflies. Pobloff hummed melodiously.

"A night to make music," whispered a deep, sweet voice. Before he could
rise, his heart bounding as if stung to its centre, a woman, swathed in
white, sat beside him, touched him, put such a pressure upon his
shoulder that his blood began to stir. It was she. He stumbled in his
speech. She laughed, and he ground his teeth, for this alone saved him
from foolishness, from mad behaviour.

"Maestro--you could make music this lovely night?" Pobloff started.

"In God's name, who are you, and what are you doing here? Where did you
go this evening? I missed you. Ah! unhappy man that I am, you will drive
me crazy!"

She did not smile now, but pressed close to him.

"I am a prisoner--like yourself," she replied simply.

"A prisoner! How a prisoner? I am not a prisoner, but an envoy from my
king to the sick princeling."

She sighed.

"The poor, mad prince," she said, "he is in need of your medicine,
sadly. He sent for me a year ago, and I am now his prisoner for life."

"But I saw you on the train, a day's journey hence," interrupted the
musician.

"Yes, I had escaped, and was being taken back by black Hamet when we
met."

Pobloff whistled. So the mystery was disclosed. A little white slave
from the seraglio of thi