Fenzileh, however, made a swift recovery. After all, it was the best
that could have happened. It should not be difficult to transmute that
obvious dejection of Asad's into resentment, and to fan this into a rage
that must end by consuming Sakr-el-Bahr. And so the thing could be
accomplished without jeopardy to her own place at Asad's side. For it
was inconceivable that he should now take Rosamund to his hareem.
Already the fact that she had been paraded with naked face among the
Faithful must in itself have been a difficult obstacle to his pride. But
it was utterly impossible that he could so subject his self-respect to
his desire as to take to himself a woman who had been the wife of his
servant.
Fenzileh saw her way very clearly. It was through Asad's devoutness--as
she herself had advised, though scarcely expecting such rich results as
these--that he had been thwarted by Sakr-el-Bahr. That same devoutness
must further be played upon now to do the rest.
Taking up a flimsy silken veil, she went out to him where he now sat on
the divan under the awning, alone there in the tepid-scented summer
night. She crept to his side with the soft, graceful, questing movements
of a cat, and sat there a moment unheeded almost--such was his
abstraction--her head resting lightly against his shoulder.
"Lord of my soul," she murmured presently, "thou art sorrowing." Her
voice was in itself a soft and soothing caress.
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