at the burning blue of the sky as vaguely and wildly as a sick man
in the delirium of fever.

"God! What ails me!" he muttered, supporting himself with one hand
against the black and crumbling wall near which he stood. "Why
should that melody steal away my strength and make me think of
things with which I have surely no connection! What tricks my
imagination plays me in this city of the Orient--I might as well
be hypnotized! What have I to do with dreams of war and triumph
and rapine and murder, and what is the name of Ziska-Charmazel to
me?"

He shook himself with the action of a fine brute that has been
stung by some teasing insect, and, mastering his emotions by an
effort, walked away. But he was so absorbed in strange thoughts,
that he stumbled up against Denzil Murray in a side street on the
way to the Gezireh Palace Hotel without seeing him, and would have
passed him altogether had not Denzil somewhat fiercely said:

"Stop!"

Gervase looked at him bewilderedly.

"Why, Denzil, is it you? My dear fellow, forgive me my brusquerie!
I believe I have got a stroke of the sun, or something of the
sort; I assure you I hardly know what I am doing or where I am
going!"

"I believe it!" said Denzil, hoarsely. "You are as mad as I am--
for love!"