All was silent, the stillness only broken by the champ, champ, champ of the camels.
Ibrahim could see her, but the shadow of the tent enshrouded him in darkness, and her eyes could not penetrate into the blackness.
“Who spake?” she whispered in her own language.
“Thine eyes, which rival the stars in their brightness, should be able to see, though the clouds were blacker than the tomb, and thy soul, which speaks through thy lips, should divine that one who loves the music of thy mouth is near to thee.”
Girzilla made no answer.
She could not understand her surroundings.
All was so pleasant that she feared it was a dream.
To avert the calamity of awakening and finding that ’twas but a vision of the night, she returned silently to the carpets and fell asleep.
The chloroform had not lost all its power.
Ibrahim grew bolder when he found she did not answer him.