It will be obvious that I can give no more than a meagre account of all that followed the betrayal of Waylao, and in reference to Pauline’s acquaintance with Abduh, which I hinted at in the close of the preceding chapter, I do not wish to do more than paint a picture in chameleon colours of the incidents connected with her infatuation for the aforesaid abomination.
Neither do I make these remarks because I have any inward qualms as to my method of placing the facts of the case before my reader. My doubts are absolutely nil. I know that a man reigns king over the dominions of his own book if he dips his pen in his own ink—the molten centre of his own experiences.
When Waylao reached the Indian’s side she looked into his eyes as though she would read his soul. But I suppose that the instincts of woman failed her in the supreme moment and she did not appear to doubt the veracity of his explanation. I can well imagine that his voice was musical and sounded divinely truthful. How could she be expected to doubt so noble, so manly-looking a lover?
Most of us place our confidence in the most unworthy objects. It’s a pity that faith, which Providence lends us, is not double-sighted in women—and in men too.
It was at this meeting that the Indian persuaded the girl to go with him to the cavern.
“Must I go?” she said fearfully.
There was no light of mercy in that masterful gaze, as the girl hesitated, seeking to fathom the truth with her own poor, blinded eyes.
Her innocent glamour had created that thing that stood before her, clad in Oriental silken swathings, a coiled turban on its head. It represented the embodied god of her romantic dreams.
The deceit of that spittoon-like skull triumphed. He led her away into the shadows, just as the devil in Eden led happy Eve. But he took no risks—he held her tightly by the wrist, and repeatedly reassured the girl by tender pressures.
They were off to the Mohammedan mosque, the harem cavern by Temoria. It will be hard to piece together the scene in that hell of passion, and describe all that Waylao must have felt as she fell beneath that Nemesis—the hand of her own idolatry and the power of Islam.