you or
to me: or did you not understand?"

"Oh yes," said she in a low voice, looking down at her needlework.

They talked in Persian, for she had not forgotten the language which her
mother had spoken till her dying day.

Life is sometimes as strange as a fairy-tale; and the accident was indeed
wonderful which had brought these two beings, of all others, at the same
time to the sick room. His distant home was also hers, and he even knew
her uncle--her father's brother--and her father's sad history.

When the Greek army had taken possession of the province where they had
lived, the men had fled into the woods with their flocks and herds, while
the women and children took refuge in the fortress which defended the
main road. This had not long held out against the Byzantines, and the
women, among them Mandane with her mother, had been handed over to the
soldiers as precious booty. Her father had then joined the troops to
rescue the women, but he and his comrades had only lost their lives in
the attempt. To this day the valiant man's end was a tale told in his
native place, and his property and valuable rose gardens now belonged to
his younger brother. So the two convalescents had plenty to talk about.

It was curious to note how clearly the memories of her childhood were
stamped on Mandane's mind.

She had laid her wounded head on the pillow of sickness with a darkened
brain, and the new pain had lifted the veil from her mind as a storm
clears the oppressive atmosphere of a sultry summer's day. She loved to
linger now among the scenes of her childhood--the time when she had a
mother.--Or she would talk of the present; all between was like a
night-sky black, and only lighted up by an awful comet and shining stars.
That comet was Orion. All she had enjoyed with him and suffered through
him she consigned to the period of her craziness; she had taught herself
to regard it all as part of the madness to which she had been a victim.
Her nature was not capable of cherishing hatred and she could feel no
animosity towards the Mukaukas' son. She thought of him as of one who,
without evil intent, had done her great wrong; one whom she might not
even remember without running into peril.

"Then you mean to say," the Masdakite began once more, "that you would
really miss me if Haschim sent for me?"

"Yes indeed, Rustem; I should be very sorry."

"Oh!" said the other, passing his hand over his big head, on which the
dense mane o