“I then said,” he went on, “that I loved you dearly, and asked you whether you could love me in return. And you said you did not understand such love as I described to you. Do you remember?”
“Yes; I remember,” she said softly. “But then I said I could scarce credit such sudden love for me; and that you might change. And it seems you have, for, since then, you have never told me that you loved me.”
He seized her hand.
“No, Ulama,” he cried passionately, “it was not so. I have not altered. But I feared—that—well, that your father might be angered. ‘Twas for that reason that I spoke no more to you of love.”
“In that you did my father wrong,” she answered frankly. “My father loves me far too well to cause me pain and——”
“Ah! Then—would it pain you were I to go away from here and never see you more?”
She started, and a look of mingled fear and grief came into her eyes.
“You are—not—going away?” she faltered anxiously.
“Not if you bid me stay, Ulama. If you but whisper in my ear that you may come to love me—if only a little—then I will stay—stay on always—forget my country, my own people, my friends; give up everything, and live for you—for you alone, my sweet, my gentle Ulama; my beloved Ulama!”