“It would be an honour for me; it would give me the privilege of worshipping you, of protecting you, of taking away all thorns from your path, and of strewing it with roses. I ask to be allowed to be your servant, as you are the mistress of my soul.”
“The effendi speaks very beautifully,” she commented.
“I love you!” he cried. “I love you!”
She gave him her right hand, and he, bending as a worshipper, touched it with his lips; then as a man he drew her to him, and covered her hair and her eyes and her lips with his kisses.
When Chakendé and I retreated to the little tent arranged for us, the young Turk lay down on the ground outside, across the doorway. Chakendé on her rug prayed to Allah, her uninjured arm upstretched with the palm toward heaven. After she had finished she turned to me.
“Dear little Thunderstorm,” she said, “it has been a horrible day, a devastating day, a life-taking day, but ah!—to me it has been the most wonderful day of my life.”
CHAPTER XVII
A GREAT LADY OF STAMBOUL
THE earthquake subsided, and little by little people began to forget its terrors. Some who had old-fashioned houses plucked up courage to enter them, then to abandon their tents and stay in them. One day some young people laughed, and others echoed their laughter. Gradually the older people began to laugh, too; and the terrible shock which had killed so many thousands and unnerved so many more began to lose its hold upon the imagination of the people.
Before the month was over life became normal, and we talked of ordinary, everyday things. One day as I was sitting by my mother, making lace, she casually remarked: