“Yes. She has been in these hills for years, working among the lepers. A fair-skinned woman, with great haunting dark eyes.”
“But who is she?” throwing down his cards and looking eagerly at his father.
“She is what I tell you,” impatiently—“a Persian; they are generally fair, and I dare say she has been handsome in her day, about thirty years ago. Why are you so interested?”
“Because I have another idea in my head; I believe she is an Englishwoman.”
The major’s laugh was loud, and sound, and not at all mad.
“She is a Persian—only, of course, you are no judge—and to the very tips of her fingers.”
“But what is she doing up here?”
“I would rather you asked her that than I did,” was the extremely sane reply. “She is a Christian, I believe, and is working out her sins. I have no doubt she is a woman with a past. You can read it in her eyes. Come, my boy, take up your hand; it’s your turn to play.”
Mark Jervis, as we know, had not been permitted time or opportunity to read anything, whether referring to past or present, in the Persian’s eyes; but this omission was corrected ere long.
One afternoon he noticed a figure, stick in hand, resting on the mess-house steps, as he rode by—a figure which raised the stick, and imperatively summoned him to approach.