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I was
getting beyond astonishment. The curtain agitated itself a little, then
suddenly between its folds there appeared a most beautiful white hand
(white as snow), and with long tapering fingers, ending in the pinkest
nails. The hand grasped the curtain, and drew it aside, and as it did so
I heard a voice, I think the softest and yet most silvery voice I ever
heard. It reminded me of the murmur of a brook.
"Stranger," said the voice in Arabic, but much purer and more classical
Arabic than the Amahagger talk--"stranger, wherefore art thou so much
afraid?"
Now I flattered myself that in spite of my inward terrors I had kept
a very fair command of my countenance, and was, therefore, a little
astonished at this question. Before I had made up my mind how to answer
it, however, the curtain was drawn, and a tall figure stood before us. I
say a figure, for not only the body, but also the face was wrapped up in
soft white, gauzy material in such a way as at first sight to remind me
most forcibly of a corpse in its grave-clothes.


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