“What says Girzilla?”
The girl smiled, sadly.
“I am away from my people; they mourn me as dead. I am thy slave, do with me as thou wilt—I am thine.”
“No, Girzilla, not mine,” said Sherif; “if thou dost belong to anyone, ’tis to Max, the audacious young madcap.”
A tinge of carmine suffused itself over the girl’s face, and she bent down her head.
“He careth not. I am not of his race; the sun doth not care for the dark—I am dark——”
“But comely,” quickly added Max, quoting from Solomon. “I do care for thee, Girzilla. I——”
“Nay, I understand thee. I will lead thee or go with thee—but it is great Sherif el Habib who is the master. As he pleases so I wilt do.”
Had this child of the desert, around whose life there was so much of mystery, learned the lessons of coquetry and flattery?
She pleased the old merchant, and so infatuated did he become, that he took Max on one side, and in a mysterious manner whispered: