“Thou art beautiful, Neit-akrit… and at the throne of Isis thy hair gleamed red and hot, and made my eyes ache with its glow: thy veil but partly covered thee… and when I looked upon thee… it seemed to me that I would forfeit my double crown of Kamt to be allowed to look again, and perhaps see thee smile. And thou didst promise to be my wife… and Isis smiled down upon me. And she whispered that in the night… when she peeped through the fuchsia alleys… and looked on the lilies and lotus blossoms… thou and thy loveliness would be wholly mine.”
He had fallen, half-fainting, upon the marble floor, and clung, still babbling inarticulate words, round her knees. Neit-akrit had stood up, rigid as a marble image: it were impossible to describe the look of horror and loathing with which she looked down on the unfortunate man at her feet.
“For God’s sake take him away from her, Mark!”
It was Hugh Tankerville’s voice whispering in my ear, but I hardly recognised it, so hoarse and choked was it. Astonished, I looked up at him, and suddenly
He had fallen, half-fainting, upon the marble floor, and clung,… around her knees.
a strange presentiment of some terrible trouble ahead, which as yet I could not explain, cast a chill over my heart. On my friend’s face there was such a look of acute mental and physical suffering, it was so deathly pale, that instinctively I put out my arm to help him, for I feared he would fall in a swoon; but he said quickly, with a forced laugh:
“Only a sudden dizziness, old chap.… The heat, I think. But have pity on her and take that moribund satyr away from her.”
“It would be needless interference, old man,” I replied, “and one for which she would not thank me.”
And I pointed to the picture, which, to my own amazement, had changed as if with the magic touch of a fairy wand. Neit-akrit, sweet and smiling, with tears of pity shining in her softened blue eyes, was bending towards the invalid, while her voice, soft and low, murmured: