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 thought and deed, he yet had, as he thought, reason to suppose that her heart was, perhaps unconsciously to herself, estranged from him, or rather that it never had been his. He remembered, with a thrill of passionate grief and indignation, her bashful reluctance to meet his gaze&mdash;her timid shrinking from his touch—and thus her very purity and modesty, the soul of true affection, were distorted by his jealous imagination into indifference for himself and fondness for another. Only two days before, upon suddenly entering her chamber, he had surprised her in tears, with a page’s cap in her hand, and on hearing his step, she had started up blushing and embarrassed, and hidden it beneath her mantle, which lay upon the couch. Poor De Courcy! This was indeed astounding; but while he had perfect faith in her honour, he was too proud to let her see his suspicions. That cap! that crimson cap! It was not the last time he was destined to behold it!

The hour of parting came, and De Courcy shuddered as he saw a smile&mdash;certainly an exulting smile&mdash;lighten through the tears in the dark eyes of his bride, as she bade him for the last time “farewell.”

A twelvemonth afterward, he was languishing in the dungeons of the East&mdash;a chained and hopeless captive.

The Sultan was weary; weary of his flowers and his fountains&mdash;of his dreams and his dancing-girls&mdash;of his harem and himself. The banquet lay untouched before him. The rich chibouque was cast aside. The cooling sherbet shone in vain.

His slaves trembled at his presence; for a dark cloud hung lowering on the brows of the great Lord of the East, and they knew,