“That part of the heavenly roof being over grandfather’s land is our roof,” she corrected me.
“Well, I don’t care what you call it, you have offended me.”
“But, darling,” she cried, “how did I do it? I don’t remember it.”
“I can’t quite explain it; but, although I have been very fond of you, I don’t like you to say that you and I are the children of God in the same way, and——”
She interrupted me—and it was a pity, too; for at the moment I was getting it quite clear how she was not my equal before God, and afterwards I could not quite get it again.
“But, yavroum, much loved by the stars and the rivers, are we not Allah’s children, you and I?”
“No!” I cried bitterly, “I have nothing to do with Allah. He is a cruel, beastly god, who tells people to kill—and you know you have killed thousands of us—and little babies, too!”
To my surprise I found myself hating the Turks with a hatred I never thought I could feel since I had come to know them. And I was miserable because I was in the same bed with Djimlah.
Her eyes glistened in the semi-darkness. Our little bed faced the windows, where there were no curtains, and the light undisturbed was pouring in from the stars above, which we could see twinkling at us.
“Funny! funny! funny!” she kept saying to herself. “I thought you liked us—and oh! I do adore you so! I felt as if truly you were my own baby.”