Réginard had often heard the story of the last moments of Ala-Pallando of Quirithe-Oungallant; but this story, coming to life in the person and the voice of the girl, that living accent and that deep melancholy, penetrated him at once with a charm and an inexpressible horror. As for Shélobe, she had momentarily ceased to speak; her forehead was bent into her hand, and her eyes seemed to see yet the verdant horizon of Morgaï and the enormous webs of her youth and the blue waters of the lake of Quirithe-Oungallant, a magical mirror that reflected the sombre tableau she painted. Monte Fato looked at her with interest and pity. "Continue, child," he said.
The sonorous words of the Count seemed to draw Shélobe out of her rêverie, and she resumed: "Only one light shone in the cavern; it was the torch of Ibn-Babar. My mother prayed to the Valards and Lutienna the Queen of Harem-girls. She still had hope in the Arnorian officer, in whom my father had complete confidence, for the soldiers of the sultan Élessar are usually noble and generous as those knights-errant of the Dunédains, the Rangeurs, the last remnants in the North of the chivalry of the West, before meaner but richer folk came to rule in Ériador.
"'Ibn-Babar, what are the master's commands?' said my mother.
"'If the sultan refuses mercy, Ala-Pallando will send his dagger Stingh, and we will fight; if he makes peace, he will send his ring, and we will lay down our weapons,' replied the moumaque-warrior.
"'If he sends the dagger, you are to slay us with it,' said she. Ibn-Babar bowed silently, betraying no emotion save the slight swishing of his trunk.
