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“Please don’t mention that to Emerson. He is as prejudiced against the aristocracy as he is against young lovers. However, Cyrus, I cannot approve of an unlicensed attachment; it is not fair to the girl.”

“I suppose you’ve got her future all planned,” Cyrus said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Are you going to give her any say in the matter?”

“Your sense of humor is delightful, dear Cyrus. I haven’t had time to consider the matter seriously; first I will have to ascertain what talents she has, and how best to employ them. But I certainly will not allow her to fall back into the life of degradation and abuse she has experienced thus far. Honorable marriage or an honorable profession—what other choices are there for any woman who is given the opportunity to choose?”

Cyrus’s hand went to his chin. Finding no goatee on which to tug, as was his habit when perplexed or perturbed, he rubbed his chin. “I reckon you’re a better judge than I am,” he replied.

“I reckon I am,” I said, laughing. “I know what you are thinking, Cyrus; I am a married woman, not an inexperienced girl. But you are wrong. Men always believe what they want to believe, and one of their least attractive delusions concerns the—er—the …”

While I was considering how best to express this delicate matter (and really, there is no way of expressing it delicately), I saw the black-robed form of Bertha sway closer to René, and her head tilt toward him. I caught my breath.

“Never mind, my dear, I get your drift,” said Cyrus with a smile.

However, it was not embarrassment that had caused me to lose track of what I had been saying. The girl’s sinuous, swaying movement had roused a long-forgotten memory. I had known another woman whose gestures had that serpentine grace. Her name was one of those on the list I had sent to Sir Evelyn Baring.

The mayor was waiting for me when Cyrus and I reached the village square. His dour expression told me, before he spoke, what news he had to give.

“No sign of Mohammed yet?” I inquired.

“He has not returned to the village, Sitt, and some of the men searched the cliffs all day. Hassan ibn Mahmud believes he has run away again.”

“I would like to speak with Hassan.” I sweetened the request with a few coins, adding, “There will be the same for Hassan if he comes at once.”

Hassan promptly appeared; he had been watching from behind a wall. He frankly admitted that he was one of those Mohammed had asked to join him. “But I would never do such a thing, honored Sitt,” he exclaimed, opening his eyes as wide as they would go. The effect was not convincing; like those of many Egyptians, Hassan’s eyelids were inflamed by recurrent infections, and his other features were not precisely prepossessing.

“I am glad to hear that, Hassan,” I remarked pleasantly. “For if I believed you meant to harm the Father of Curses, I would tear the soul out of your body by means of my magic, and leave it shrieking in the fires of Gehenna. But perhaps you agreed to go along with Mohammed yesterday in order to prevent him from carrying out his evil plan?”

“The honored Sitt reads the hearts of men!” exclaimed Hassan. “It is as the honored Sitt has said. But before we could act, the Sitt appeared, shooting and shrieking, and we knew the Father of Curses was saved. So we all ran away.”

Of course I did not believe a word of this fantasy, and Hassan knew I did not. His cowardly allies had waited in concealment to see how Mohammed made out before risking their own precious hides, but if I had not come when I did, they would have been on Emerson like a pack of jackals on a wounded lion. Mastering my contempt and anger, I took out a few more coins and jingled them carelessly in my hand. “What was Mohammed’s plan?”

I had to listen to a good many more protestations of innocence before I could winnow the few grains of wheat from among the chaff of Hassan’s lies. He insisted that murder was not Mohammed’s aim—and that I did believe. Once their victim was subdued and helpless, they would carry him to a place