It was the last day of February. Outside a storm was raging. I could hear the angry Sea of Marmora beating violently against the coast, as if it would fain annihilate with its liquid force the solidness of the earth. And the rain, imitating the sea, was beating mightily against the window-panes, while the wind was forcing the tall, stalwart pines, to bend humbly to the earth. Half of the elements were doing violence to the other half—as if they were Greeks destroying the Turks, or Turks oppressing the Greeks.
It was a gloomy birthday, yet an exaltation possessed me. I kept on stroking the little flag. I loved it, and with all the fervour of my five years I vowed to do my duty by it.
The door opened softly, and Kiamelé, my little Turkish attendant, came in. Quickly I tucked away the tiny flag.
“Good morning, Rose Petal.” She kneeled by my bed, and, putting her arms around me, smothered me with kisses. “So we are five years old to-day—pretty old, I declare! We shall be looking for a husband very soon. And now show me what the grand-uncle gave you.”
Her face was droll and piquant. Her eyes possessed infinite capacity for expression. That I loved her better than anyone else at the time was undeniable. And only a few minutes ago I had been told to hate her race.
I entwined my fingers with hers. “Do you love me, Kiamelé?” I asked.
“After Allah, I love none better.”
“I wish you did love me better than Allah,” I said, “for then I could make you a Christian.”
She shook her head drolly; “No, no, I like Allah.”
“But then,” I protested, “if you like Allah, you must hate me.”