poor Ali."

"Who was Ali?" I asked quickly.

"Ali was my Nubian servant--my only friend, then; as you, little Gretchen,
are my only friend, now," replied Monsieur Maurice, sadly. "Aye, my only
little friend in the wide world--and I think a true one."

I did not know what to say; but I nestled closer to his side; and pressed
my cheek up fondly against his shoulder.

"Tell me more about him, Monsieur Maurice," I whispered. "I am so glad he
loved you dearly."

"He loved me very dearly," said Monsieur Maurice "so dearly that he gave
his life for me."

"But is Ali dead?"

"Ay--Ali is dead. Nay, his story is brief enough, petite. I bought him in
the slave market at Cairo--a poor, sickly, soulless lad, half stupid from
ill-treatment. I gave him good food, good clothes, and liberty. I taught
him to read. I made him my own servant; and his soul and his strength came
back to him as if by a miracle. He became stalwart and intelligent, and so
faithful that he was ten times more my slave than if I had held him to his
bondage. I took him with me through all my Eastern pilgrimage. He was my
body-guard; my cook; my dragoman; everything. He slept on a mat at the foot
of my bed every night, like a dog. So he lived with me for nearly four
years--till I lost him."