you, good-bye.' So, goodbye," she added naively, and held out her hand.

Kingsley laughed, in spite of his discomfiture, and shook it.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am My Lady's slave," she said proudly.

"No, no--her servant. You can come and go as you like. You have wages."

"I am Mata, the slave--My Lady's slave. All the world knows I am her
slave. Was I not given her by the Khedive whose slave I was? May the
leaves of life be green always, but I am Mata the slave," she said
stubbornly, shaking her head.

"Do you tell My Lady so?"

"Wherefore should I tell My Lady what she knows? Is not the truth the
truth? Good-night! I had a brother who went to prison. His grave is by
Stamboul. Good-night, effendi. He was too young to die, but he had
gold, and the captain of the citadel needed money. So, he had to die.
Malaish! He is in the bosom of God, and prison does not last forever.
Goodnight, effendi. If you, effendi, are poor, it is well; no man will
desire your life. Then you can be a slave, and have quiet nights. If
you are rich, effendi, remember my brother. Good-night, effendi. May
sacrifices be yours . . . and My Lady says good-night." Kingsley gave
her a gold-piece and went down to Foulik Pasha.

As they steamed away Kingsley looked in vain to the house on the shore.
There was no face at window or door, no sign of life about the place.