“And in exchange, Monsieur asks?” Chakendé said, still not turning toward him.
“I only ask your name, mademoiselle. I should like to repeat it daily—to have it be the nectar of my soul.”
“Since Monsieur asks so little, it would be cruel to deny him.”
She turned slowly around till her eyes met his. Distinctly she said:
“My name is Chakendé, and I am known as the only daughter of Djamal Pasha.”
The young man gave a start. “You are—? You are——?”
She nodded. “The woman you have scorned for the past two years.” She turned away, and gazed out into the darkness. In a minute she rose. “Come, Thunderstorm,” she said to me, “I think we might as well go to our tent.”
The young Turk rose, too, and barred her way respectfully.
“Hanoum Effendi,” he said, speaking in Turkish now, “I love you—will you be my wife?”
“Does the effendi think it would be so great an honour?” she asked, with a little catch in her voice.