She was
seated, an idol, on a glittering black throne, at her feet with
their tapering dyed nails a fantastically attired throng of
worshipers.
The idol stirred into life, the music of the orchestra died away.
Then a tom-tom began to beat its nervous pulse-stirring throb,
the strident notes of a reed-pipe joined in and the dancer,
raised on her toes on the dais, began to sway languorously to and
fro. And so she swayed and swayed with sinuously curving limbs
while the drums throbbed out faster with ever-shortening beats,
with now and then a clash of brazen cymbals that was torture to
overwrought nerves.
The dancer was the perfection of grace. Her figure was lithe and
supple as a boy's. There was a suggestion of fire and strength
and agility about her that made one think of a panther as she
postured there against a background of barbaric color. The grace
of her movements, the exquisite blending of the colors on the
stage, the skillful grouping of the throng of worshipers, made up
a picture which held the audience spellbound and in silence until
the curtain dropped.
Desmond turned to find Strangwise standing up.
"I thought of just running round behind the scenes for a few
minutes," he said carelessly.
"What, to see Nur-el-Din? By Jove, I'm coming, too!" promptly
exclaimed Desmond.
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