"Not here!--thou liest!"
Still holding Deena fast pinned against the wall Khodadâd's eyes flashed round the roof. There were no shadows now; the morning light clear and fresh filled every corner.
"Ye gods! and devils!"
The words came low, almost soft, with the sudden inrush of admiration, as Khodadâd's hands fell away from the old man's throat, and he took one step toward the bed.
"My lord! My lord!" cried Deena starting forward. "She is ill, she is a child--she is----"
He staggered back from the blow dealt him recklessly.
"She is beautiful--that is enough!" came with a chuckling laugh. "Wake, my houri! Wake up my peri of Paradise."
There was a faint scream, the mere cry, as it were, of a wounded bird. "Nay beauty! thou shalt kiss me! What! Scent of roses and no love? Pâh! how the perfume gets into my brain. Never but once before--but this is no time for the past! Nay! struggle not. Such beauty needs no veiling."
The little murmuring wail died to silence, and the half jibing voice was silent also. So, horror-struck, Khodadâd stood for one instant before the deformity he had unshrouded. Then with a curse he turned and fled.
Deena, still dazed with the blow, crept over to the bed and covered crippledom again.