She ran the plump black beads through her fingers, her breathing quickened. She glanced at him sideways, shyly; there was an odd light in her eyes. She swayed a little towards him, then the corners of her mouth twitched and curved upwards in an adorable bow; she was smiling, smiling! He held out his arms to her and she toppled into them, burying her face in his bosom.
“My lord!” said she.
The proud lady had surrendered at last!
“Osman, Osman Bâki, what now?” thought Ortho and crushed her to him.
The girl made a faint, pained exclamation and put her hand to her throat.
“Did I hurt you, my own?” said Ortho, contrite.
“No, my lord, but you have snapped my necklace,” she laughed. “It is nothing.”
He picked up the black beads, wondering how he could have done it, and she put them down on the rug beside her.
“It is a poor thing, but a great saint has blessed it. My king, take me in your arms again.”
They sat close together while the rosy peaks faded out and the swift winter dusk filled the room, and he told her of the great things he would do. Elation swept him up. Everything seemed possible now with this slim, clinging beauty to solace and inspire him. He would trample on and on, scattering opposition like straw, carving his own road, a captain of destiny. She believed in his bravest boasts. Her lord had but to will a thing and it was done. Who could withstand her lord? “Not I, not I,” said she. “Hearken, tall one. I said to my heart night and day, ‘Hate this Roumi askar, hate him, hate him!’—but my heart would not listen, it was wiser than I.”