And yet he was impatient. He wanted to hear the whole of the story, and could hardly wait for the Arab’s emotion to cease.
“Then my daughter, the pride of my life—by whom I hoped to appease the wrath of my ancient ancestors for deserting the Mamelukes—was stolen.”
“Stolen!”
“Even so. By the beard of the prophet, methinks my wife must have gone mad.”
“And does your wife live?”
“She is in yonder caravan.”
“Has nothing been heard of her you loved?”
“Nothing. She is dead, or taught to call some man lord, and I would rather she be dead than never to see again her father.”
The old man ceased.
His head was bent down, and he asked to be alone.