When he came in through the door, she jumped to her feet to look at him apprehensively, wondering frantically what he had to tell her.

He made her his usual courteous obeisance before he said,

“All is well, Mistress!”

“You have let Mihri know that the Master is – dead?”

“I have seen Sahin. He spoke to her while I waited. She will send a chair for you tomorrow and Sahin will ensure that you can enter the Palace and that no one will speak with you until you are taken to Mihri herself.”

There was silence and then after a moment Yamina said,

“There is – nothing else I can do – is there, Hamid?’”

“Nothing, Mistress, and I know this will be best. Already there are more riots in the city and more spies have been executed.”

There was a note in his voice that told Yamina that he too had found it horrifying.

“You are quite certain,” she said after a moment, “that when the war is over I shall be able to leave?”

“Mihri will arrange it and Sahin has promised me that somehow they will get you away.”

‘If they cannot do so,’ Yamina thought to herself, ‘I must die. It is not the worst thing that can happen to anyone and, rather than be a prisoner in a gilded cage for the rest of my life, I will join Papa, wherever he may be.’

The long hours she sat upstairs at her father’s bedside brought her a strange peace.

At first she had wanted only to cry at the loss of him. Then she began to feel as though he was beside her, comforting her, telling her that what happened to the body was of no importance; it was the spirit, the soul, that mattered.

In the years after her mother’s death Yamina had grown very close to her father.

He had been a clever cultured man with a great many interests, but most of all he had enjoyed reading history, delving into the past, telling her about civilisations that had existed in other ages.

Once when they had been talking about the great Genghis Khan and Alexander the Great, Yamina had said with a sigh,

“It seems such a waste! All they achieved, all they fought for is lost and forgotten! It died with them so what was the point of all their efforts?”

Her father had smiled.

“Nothing is lost, my child,” he answered. “Every ounce of human endeavour goes back into the great Force from which it has come. It is life that activates us all.”

“To further effort?” Yamina enquired. “To more achievement?”

“Exactly!” he replied.

“And then we too are lost!”

“Not lost, merely re-activated, because that is the whole point of evolution. It goes on. Great figures evolve, but they in their turn give way to others.”

He had paused before saying,