the rocks and throws
its red berries down into the valley, while all around is cold and
dead.

The whole winter through the valley is covered with the rarest
flowers. That is why the Wallachian calls it the Devil's garden, and
is afraid to go near it. Yet the miracle has a purely natural cause.
In a hole in the depth of the valley is a hot mineral spring that
never comes to light, but warms through the earth above; and, as warm
waters have their own peculiar flora, these strange plants flourish
there beside their quickening element. The whole place is like a
greenhouse in the open air amid storms and ice mountains.

Sanga-moarta beckoned silently to his comrades to follow him. A
feverish unrest was noticeable throughout his whole being. After a few
steps he pointed with trembling hand to a dark hollow where there was
an iron door.

"What is that?" cried Clement, reaching for his sword. "Is this hollow
inhabited?"

"Yes," replied Sanga-moarta, with blood evidently on fire and his
temples swollen to bursting. "There in that pool she bathes; here I
have listened day after day, but have not had the courage to go near."
He stammered in scarcely audible words though they were passionate.

"Who?" asked the Lieutenant, perplexed.

"The fairy," stammered the Wallachian, with quivering lips, and buried
his burning lips in his hands.

"What kind of a fairy?" said Clement, turning to Zulfikar. "I am
looking for a panther."

"Hush, there is the sound of a key in the door," said Zulfikar, "step
back."

The two men had to pull Sanga-moarta from the door. This opened
noiselessly and a woman stepped forth leading a panther by a spiked
collar of gold. Sanga-moarta had good cause to call her a fairy. A
magnificent woman stood there in delicate Oriental garb. The long gold
tassel of her red fez fell down over her white turban; above her
ermine-embroidered caftan gleamed her ivory white shoulders; her
movements were sinuous and bewitching. The three men held their breath
while the woman passed by without noticing them.

"Ha, there she is!" whispered Zulfikar, when she had passed.

"Who is she? So you know her," said Clement.

"Azraele, once the favorite of Corsar Bey."

"Where are we then?"

"Be still, or she will hear us."

Meantime the woman had reached the pool, seated herself on a stone
bench and loosed her turban. The dark curls fell down over her
shoulders.

Sanga-moarta's hot panting was heard in the darkness.