Long before light, came Rahula. She was nearly distracted by Alcamayn’s shrieks and groans, but tried to show a brave face. The prisoner was sinking into a drowse, and Rahula did not know whether he recognized her or not. She had brought him some ripe persimmons, and occupied herself trying to make him comfortable.
To her surprise he awoke hungry, and did full justice to the appetizing meal prepared for him. There was no objection to her providing the food, but the authorities insisted that she should partake of it freely. So it happened that she furnished and ate all meals with him.
Many and long were the confidential talks these two had together, and on more than one occasion Rahula committed to picture-writing things that were told her.
Nothing escaped her tightly closed lips, nor did she utter one word of complaint. She was surly and defiant when questioned, but made no resistance at the last moment.
On Friday morning, Ildiko, pale and agitated, knocked timidly at the outer gate, and begged to see Alcamayn. He received her quietly, but there was not a shade of pity for her broken fortunes.
The widow’s face was drawn and pinched, and she looked utterly forlorn and helpless while the search went on.
Once in the cell, she tried to speak cheerfully to her childhood friend, but she could not prevent a revulsion of feeling when she saw the perfumed dandy shorn of all his splendor; his long, thin neck and large ears grated upon her senses unpleasantly.
How was it ever possible that she had loved him?
Ildiko began to suspect that it was remorse and not affection which had prompted her feelings. She had never practiced self-restraint, but had always given voice to every passing emotion. What she said was true at the time it was spoken, or, at least, she thought it was.
Alcamayn huddled over in a corner opposite, unable to control his repugnance, and instinctively sharing something of the aversion apparent in Ildiko.