There was on him that barbaric despair which has taken dreadful toll of
life for the decree of destiny. Across the record of this day, as across
the history of many an Eastern and pagan tyrant, was written: "He would
not die alone." That the world should go on when he was gone, that men
should buy and sell and laugh and drink, and flaunt it in the sun, while
he, Prince Kaid, would be done with it all.

He was roused by the rustling of a robe. Before him stood the Arab
physician, Sharif Bey, who had been in his father's house and his own
for a lifetime. It was many a year since his ministrations to Kaid had
ceased; but he had remained on in the Palace, doing service to those who
received him, and--it was said by the evil-tongued--granting certificates
of death out of harmony with dark facts, a sinister and useful figure.
His beard was white, his face was friendly, almost benevolent, but his
eyes had a light caught from no celestial flame.

His look was confident now, as his eyes bent on Kaid. He had lived long,
he had seen much, he had heard of the peril that had been foreshadowed by
the infidel physician; and, by a sure instinct, he knew that his own
opportunity had come. He knew that Kaid would snatch at any offered
comfort, would cherish any alleviating lie, would steal back from
science and civilisation and the modern palace to the superstition of the
fellah's hut. Were not all men alike when the neboot of Fate struck them
down into the terrible loneliness of doom, numbing their minds? Luck
would be with him that offered first succour in that dark hour. Sharif
had come at the right moment for Sharif.

Kaid looked at him with dull yet anxious eyes. "Did I not command that
none should enter?" he asked presently in a thick voice.