And she sat on the throne in the center, unveiled, unjeweled, and content to outshine all of them without any kind of artificial aid.
She sat under a hard white light directed from behind a lattice in the wall that would have exaggerated the slightest imperfection of looks or manner; and she looked like a fairy-book queen--like the queen you used to think of in the nursery when your aunt read stories to you and the illustrated Sunday supplements had not yet disillusioned you as to how queens wear their hats.
She was Titania, with a touch of Diana the Huntress, and decidedly something of Athena, goddess of wisdom, clothed in flowing cream that showed the outlines of her figure, and with sandals on her bare feet.
Not a diamond.

Not a jewel of any kind.

Her hair was bound up in the Grecian fashion and shone like yellow gold.
Surely she seemed to have been born for the very purpose of presiding.
Perhaps she was the only one who was at ease, for the others shifted restlessly behind their veils and had that vague, uncertain air that goes with inexperience--although one woman, larger looking than the rest, and veiled in embroidered black instead of colors, sat on a chair near the throne with a rather more nervy-looking outline.

There were more than a hundred women in there all told.
Yasmini's change of countenance at sight of my predicament was instantaneous.

I don't doubt it was her fault that I had been mistreated on the way up, for these women had seen me bound by her orders and mocked by her a couple of hours previously.