ons, as when she
lay upon her hard, narrow pallet bed at home.

Before the first apricot flush of dawn crept up the eastern sky, Mary
Fisher had sunk into a tranquil sleep.

III

It was broad daylight, though still early, when she awoke. Outside,
the garden behind the house was now a rippling sea of rose and scarlet
poppies, above which the orange hawks swooped or dived like copper
anchors, in the crisp morning air. Within doors, a slave girl stood
beside the divan in the guest chamber, clapping her hands gently
together to cause the white stranger to awake. But the chamber seemed
full of moonlight, although it was broad day. Had the waning crescent
retraced her footsteps, or left behind some of her chill beams? Mary
Fisher rubbed her eyes. She must surely be dreaming still! Then,
waking fully, she saw that the moon-like radiance came from a heap of
silvery gauze draperies, reflected in the emerald green tiles of the
floor and in the tall narrow mirrors that separated the lattice-work
shutters.

A flowing robe of silver tissue was spread out over an ottoman in the
centre of the floor. The slave girl at her side was holding up a long
veil of shimmering silver, drawing it through her henna-stained
finger-tips, with low, gurgling cries of delight; then, stretching out
her arms wide, she spread the veil easily to their fullest extent. A
moment later, drawing a tiny ring from her finger, she had pressed the
veil as easily through the small golden circlet, so fine were the
silken folds. Then with significant gestures she explained that all
these treasures were for the stranger to wear instead of her own
apparel. With scornful glances from her dark almond-shaped eyes she
pointed disdainfully to Mary Fisher's own simple garments, which, at
her entrance, she had tossed contemptuously into a heap on the floor.

The plain, grey, Quakeress's dress did indeed look simpler than ever
amid all the shining Oriental splendour. Worn too it was, and
travel-stained in places, though newly washed, carefully mended and
all ready for use.

Mary Fisher had been a woman for many years before she became a
Quakeress. Nay more, she was a woman still. It is possible that, for
about the space of half a minute, she may have looked almost
regretfully at the silver tissue draperies and the gauze veil.

Half a minute. Not longer! For her, a Messenger of the Great King, to
clothe herself in garments worn by Turkish women, unbelievers,
follower