She is dying, and wants to see a countryman. Will you please come and see her?"

I replied that I would be glad to visit her, but he must see the Consul, who would probably send the doctor of the hospital to examine her and make arrangements for her removal. He seemed to be annoyed, and with a gesture of impatience said

"It is quite impossible. The Sahb, my father, would never agree to her removal to an English hospital. We cannot go to the Consulate. All who go there are marked men; they are watched by the police and suspected of intrigue. No, it cannot be."

I questioned him about his nurse. "Where is she living? How long has she been with you? What is her ailment ?

'My nurse is very old. She lives with us. She has lived with us and been as a mother to me since I was a boy. She came from India. She is very old, and she cannot live long. Please come and see her."

He was also pleased to add that his father hated the English, but he did not reply to any questions I put to him on that matter.

One reply stood out above the rest : "She is English. She came from India."

Did this story of over thirty years of Mecca life mean the life of the harem? Who was the Sahb? Why should he hate the English? Why should she want to see a countryman ? I did not know the man, did

not know where they lived, but some impulse-partly curiosity, partly sympathy-moved and spurred me on. I agreed to go. Next morning Aboud called, and together we went to his rooms. We had not far to go. He was living in one of those huge caravanserais, built when merchants came from all parts with caravans, and quarters had to be provided for pack animal as well as for merchandise and merchant.

I knew the building well. I had often inspected carpets in its courtyard, and closed the transaction in one of its vaulted rooms. It stood on the slope of the hill leading to the War Office, and its high windowless walls of solid stone made it look like a fortress. The walls enclosed an open quadrangular courtyard, surrounded by rooms used as stables. Stone stairways led to galleries above, around which were some threescore rooms. All these had stone floors, all were vaulted, and their windows were heavily barred. All had double iron doors, for the building was erected in stirring times when protection was needed. The khan, as it is called, has inner and outer gates, which were closed in times of riot or disorder.

In the early days of last century the building was the headquarters of the Greek merchants. Some of these were accused of corresponding with the leaders of the Greek revolution, and a dozen of them were taken as hostages. On the

following day they were beheaded. Later the gates were battered in by the Janissaries, and every Greek found on the premises was killed. It has since become the headquarters of the Persians, Turcomans, and other Moslem traders from Central Asia. But the bustle of former days has gone. Its galleries and courtyard are often empty.

The present-day occupants of the rooms are merchants who remain there for short periods; they live and trade there until they have disposed of their goods; they prepare their own food or buy it from one of the cook-shops in the neighbourhood. A roll of bedding, a couple of saddle-bags, some pots and pans, a prayerrug, and the never-failing samovar completes both outfit and furniture. The public bath, the fountain or tap at the mosque, and their "Ibrik water-can for their ablutions, is all they require to keep themselves clean. The comfort and luxury of the West is not known.

or

Up the well-worn slippery stone steps we climbed, and continued along the stonepaved corridor. Aboud stopped at last before one of the doors, unlocked it, and welcomed me in. I followed him down a passage some six feet wide to an inner room.

I thought, as I examined the massive walls, the vaulted roof, the barred windows, the flagged floor, "If this Arab means mischief, what chance have I of escape?"

Aboud saw that I hesitated, and assured me that no one was about. It was too late to consider withdrawing. I accepted his invitation and entered. We were in the harem.

The white-washed walls made the room look cheerless. A deal table with some crockery on it, some kitchen utensils, a brazier, a samovar, a lamp, two chests, some rugs, a stool, and three rush-seat chairs completed the furniture. A curtain hanging from a rope slung across the room screened off one of the corners.

The impression I got was that the furniture of Aboud's harem was altogether out of keeping with his princely attire.

I saw a negress squatted on a rug preparing some food on a brazier. She continued her work, apparently oblivious of our entrance. Without moving she replied to Aboud's question in a language I could not understand. It was evident from her familiar way that long service had made her one of the family.

She wore no veil, but a bright-coloured kerchief partly covered her henna-dyed dishevelled hair. Her nails and fingers were dyed also. Her wrinkled ebony face was tattooed with the marking of the Berbers. She was clad in the loose shapeless garments of the country, each garment vying with the other in brightness of colour. She was the most grotesque and repulsive creature that I have ever seen.

She drew aside the curtain;

on the floor on a pile of bedding I saw the patient.

There was no mistaking those bright blue eyes, the white parted hair, and the distinction of race of which even Mecca and the life of the harem had not robbed her. Though emaciated and in the last stages of consumption, she still had a beautiful face.

I knew at once that she was of my own country. I sat beside her and told her that I was English. I asked her if I could help her in any way. Would she like to be moved? Would she like to see my English doctor? She made no

answer.

Those blue eyes looked me through and through. Now and again they would close and a tear would steal down her cheek. Dying though she was, the strength of mind to carry her sorrow with her was still there.

I was deeply stirred and uneasy in my mind, for I remembered stories I had heard of Christian women and slaves in harems. What could be the mystery of this woman dying in such surroundings? What the circumstances of her life?

I realised that she was distressed at my visit, and could not see any reason for her silence, unless Aboud's presence prevented her from answering my questions.

I asked to see him alone. We retired to an adjoining room. I told him that I would bring an English doctor, and that I thought it might be

necessary to remove his nurse to hospital.

Ayesha, the negress, was a cheery old soul, in whom fun and good humour bubbled over. She would amuse herself and the invalid in the most childish ways. I can still remember

His reply was always the same. "The Sahb will not see you or any other Englishman. He has little love for your race. He will not allow her to be removed. I have brought you here without his knowledge."

I was prepared to go great lengths, even to calling in the police, but I realised that the invalid was too frail to be moved, as any emotion might prove fatal. Aboud's statement that she was his nurse could not justify the Sahb's refusal to send her to a hospital, nor yet his keeping her under such miserable conditions. He agreed to allow me to call as often as I wanted to, and both he and the negress appreciated my visits. The negress in particular realised that I was there to help. Her humanity responded to the touch of kindness which makes the whole world kin.

Language was our difficulty. She spoke no Turkish, but with shrug of shoulder, play of hand and arm, and all the facial expressions which carry one so far in the East, we were able to understand each other. Many a laugh we had over our difficulties, but at times I had to appeal to the invalid to interpret.

tion to a hot-water bottle and air-cushion. She loved to blow it out, and giggled and laughed as she let the air escape. At times, in a low monotonous way, she would hum some native air. It was usually a reiteration of one word: "Leb, Leh, Leh." Quickening the tempo, she sang louder and louder, keeping time by swaying her body, snapping her finger and thumb, clapping her hands or stamping her feet. These strange antics were accompanied with guttural cries and jeers, and would end with a great sigh and then a peal of laughter. What I saw and heard were perhaps vestiges still left to her of her life with her own people in the wilds of Africa. Uncivilised though she was, yet there was something in that withered tattooed face which bespoke a simple honest heart. I found her a most devoted nurse to her dying mistress and companion in misfortune, who, to all intents and purposes, had been and still was a slave.

My later visits to the invalid met with more success. She was glad to see me, but at first it was evidently painful for her to tell me the little she did.

At my third visit I heard more of her story. That shrinking, that hesitancy had left her. Her mind had been carried back to doings of her early days, and as those keen blue eyes searched my own she said

"I am sorry I did not answer you when you first called. But oh, how many have deceived me! I thought I thought you were another dupe of the Sahb. You cannot, you never can have the vaguest idea of what my life has been. Yes, I am English. My father was an officer. We lived near Cawnpore. We were on our way to Cawnpore when some trouble arose. I do not know what happened, but I was captured and taken to the Sahb. He is an Indian. I have been with him ever since. We travelled through India and Arabia. We have lived at many places in Arabia. We have lived at Mecca for the last twenty-five years. I have tried many times to communicate with my father, but my letters were never answered. Some of them were handed over to the Sahb and caused trouble. Once only in all these years have I seen an Englishman. I tried to get into touch with him, but I was betrayed and removed to Maan. I have not seen the Sahb for months. Aboud has always been good and kind to me. I taught him English when he was a boy, but for want of practice he has forgotten it."

I asked her about the Mutiny. She only knew that some

trouble had taken place with the Sepoys. The Sahb was mixed up in it. I only know him as the Sahb. We came here some months ago. I have been bedridden ever since."

At times she would hesitate as though in doubt. At other times her tears checked her story. It was incredibly moving. I felt I must not question her further. But at each visit she added to her pathetic story.

And then came her startling confession. "I am not married, but Aboud is my son. He was born at Maan. He was taken from me and sent to Mecca, while I was kept at Maan for three years. I gave up all hope of regaining my liberty. Later I was sent to Mecca as his nurse. the truth.

He does not know

I do not want him to. I pray that I may soon be taken. Please pray, too, that my end may come soon."

For over thirty years she had lived away from all interests which help to keep us what we are, in surroundings which kill all refinement. Yet she was still British in spirit. I realised that she was sinking fast; her end came sooner than I expected.

When I next called I was not surprised to hear that she had passed away and had been buried. Following Eastern custom, she was buried before sundown on the day of her death. The Mollah of the mosque in the courtyard of the Khan signed the certificate of death; he also buried her. A hafiz chanted the Koran for