Max told her of the offense he had given.
“If he be the Mahdi,” said she, consolingly, “he will not be offended. If he be not the Mahdi, he will not hurt my brother for fear of offending Mohammed, my father, and the illustrious Sherif el Habib.”
“It is fair reasoning, my true one, my Girzilla. How strange that, through saving me, you should be restored to your friends.”
“It is indeed. Oh, Max, my mother is lovely.”
“I am glad you are so happy, and yet you will soon leave her and go with thy husband.”
“I suppose so;” and Girzilla sighed.
“Tell me, Girzilla, do you not love Ibrahim?”
“Yes—that—I—what shall I say?”
“Speak to me as a brother, dear one.”
“As a—brother. Ah, yes—but art thou going away?”