‘How should I know your mother, Emir of the castles of Lebanon? Have I ever left these mountains, which are dearer to me than the pyramids of Egypt to the great Pasha? Have I ever looked upon your women, Maronite or Druse, walking in white sheets, as if they were the children of ten thousand ghouls; with horns on their heads, as if they were the wild horses of the desert?’
‘Ask Keferinis,’ said Fakredeen, still sighing; ‘he has been at Bteddeen, the court of the Emir Bescheer. He knew my mother, at least by memory. My mother, beautiful Astarte, was an Ansarey.’
‘Your mother was an Ansarey!’ repeated Astarte, in a tone of infinite surprise; ‘your mother an Ansarey? Of what family was she a child?’
‘Ah!’ replied Fakredeen, ‘there it is; that is the secret sorrow of my life. A mystery hangs over my mother, for I lost both my parents in extreme childhood; I was at her heart,’ he added, in a broken voice, ‘and amid outrage, tumult, and war. Of whom was my mother the child? I am here to discover that, if possible. Her race and her beautiful religion have been the dream of my life. All I have prayed for has been to recognise her kindred and to behold her gods.’
‘It is very interesting,’ murmured the Queen.
‘It is more than interesting,’ sighed Fakredeen. ‘Ah! beautiful Astarte! if you knew all, if you could form even the most remote idea of what I have suffered for this unknown faith;’ and a passionate tear quivered on the radiant cheek of the young prince.
‘And yet you came here to preach the doctrines of another,’ said Astarte.
‘I came here to preach the doctrines of another!’ replied Fakredeen, with an expression of contempt; his nostril dilated, his lip curled with scorn. ‘This mad Englishman came here to preach the doctrines of another creed, and one with which it seems to me, he has as little connection as his frigid soil has with palm trees. They produce them, I am told, in houses of glass, and they force their foreign faith in the same manner; but, though they have temples, and churches, and mosques, they confess they have no miracles; they admit that they never produced a prophet; they own that no God ever spoke to their people, or visited their land; and yet this race, so peculiarly favoured by celestial communication, aspire to be missionaries!’
‘I have much misapprehended you,’ said Astarte; ‘I thought you were both embarked in a great cause.’
‘Ah, you learnt that from Darkush!’ quickly replied Fakredeen. ‘You see, beautiful Astarte, that I have no personal acquaintance with Darkush. It was the intendant of my companion who was his friend; and it is through him that Darkush has learnt anything that he has communicated. The mission, the project, was not mine; but when I found my comrade had the means, which had hitherto evaded me, of reaching Gindarics, I threw no obstacles in his crotchety course. On the contrary, I embraced the opportunity even with fervour, and far from discouraging my friend from views to which I know he is fatally, even ridiculously, wedded, I looked forward to this expedition as the possible means of diverting his mind from some opinions, and, I might add, some influences, which I am persuaded can eventually entail upon him nothing but disappointment and disgrace.’ And here Fakredeen shook his head, with that air of confidential mystery which so cleverly piques curiosity.