he had given to the lions, the memory of her, some haunting part of her,
possessed him, overcame him. In truth, he had heard a voice in the
night, but not the voice of a spirit. It was the voice of Zaida, who,
preying upon his superstitious mind--she knew the hallucination which
possessed him concerning her he had cast to the lions--and having given
the terrible secret to Kaid, whom she had ever loved, would still save
Harrik from the sure vengeance which must fall upon him. Her design had
worked, but not as she intended. She had put a spell of superstition on
him, and the end would be accomplished, but not by flight to the desert.

Harrik chose the other way. He had been a hunter.

He was without fear. The voice of the woman he loved called him. It
came to him through the distant roar of the lions as clear as when, with
one cry of "Harrik !" she had fallen beneath the lion's paw. He knew now
why he had kept the great beast until this hour, though tempted again and
again to slay him.

Like one in a dream, he drew a dagger from the cushions where he sat, and
rose to his feet. Leaving the room and passing dark groups of waiting
slaves, he travelled empty chambers and long corridors, the voices of the
lions growing nearer and nearer. He sped faster now, and presently came
to two great doors, on which he knocked thrice. The doors opened, and
two slaves held up lights for him to enter. Taking a torch from one of
them, he bade them retire, and the doors clanged behind them.

Harrik held up the torch and came nearer. In the centre of the room was
a cage in which one great lion paced to and fro in fury. It roared at
him savagely. It was his roar which had come to Harrik through the
distance and the night. He it was who had carried Fatima, the beloved,