"She went, though...."
"No, uncle, no. If he had been strong she might, but,—"
The old Druse chief shook his head, smiled in his beard, a little, bitter, wise smile.
"You were never sick with her, never poor."
"No, never sick, never poor."
"Well, he was sick and poor, so she went with him."
"Then she loved him all along."
"No, son Zan, she loved you—until you threw him. She might have been amused at seeing him pass the house, laugh a little, be flattered.... Such a big fool, and she a little woman.... But she would never have left you...."
"But she did."
"Well ... after the fall, he had no friends ... the Christians despised him, the Moslems hated him.... There was no train to follow him ... he went on crutches.... He passed her door and looked, and looked.... What could she do but come out.... It was her fault, after all.... And she was very tender-hearted...."