“Alas! in her hands you are both.”
Kareem’s altered manner was not lost on Pera, and she smilingly promised her immediate circle to probe his secret, and that they should all speedily learn why he gave himself airs like a Nawab.
She drew him on, and encouraged the infatuated boy, and gained her old ascendency over him in less than two days. He entirely forgot Ibrahim’s solemn warnings, and what chance has a wrinkled ugly old man against the charms and the mocking words, and bright glances, of a Circe of sixteen? She asked Kareem many searching questions, and flouted him, ridiculed him, flattered him. One evening, as they leant over the bridge together, she inquired—
“Why had he given away his kite? Why was he not at Buldoo’s wedding feast? Why did he mope like a sick fowl? What secret was in his mind?”
His tardy answers were vague and confused, and all at once the truth broke upon Pera with one lightning flash.
The scroll had been deciphered.
“Kareem, I see you no longer care for me,” she whimpered tearfully.
“I do,” he rejoined; “but to what avail? You are to marry Mindoo, the dacoit.”
“He is no dacoit; neither am I to marry him. If you say so, I will strike you on the mouth with my shoe,” rejoined this fiery lady.
“Nevertheless, both my words are true,” persisted Kareem, doggedly.