"O, you Turk," she cried, "you cowardly Turk! You needn't grind your teeth at me. I'm not afraid of death. It's only your vile love that I fear."
Kostakes raised his doubled fists above his head and brought them down with such violence that an involuntary "Ah!" escaped him.
"By God, girl, you would drive a saint crazy," he cried. "Here I am offering to change my religion and put away my harem, and all for you, and I get nothing out of you but an insult. Don't you know that you are in my power, and I can do with you what I please? No cursed foreigner will rescue you this time. He did not know enough to keep you when he had you, and I'll see that he doesn't get another chance. I want you to love me as I love you. Panayota, I've made an honorable offer. I leave you to think it over. But make up your mind to this—you're mine, and I'll never give you up while I live."
When Kostakes stepped into the court again, Souleima was blowing up the coals in a little charcoal stove, home-made from an American petroleum can. Ayesha, standing by the table, called out in a stage whisper, plainly audible throughout the enclosure:
"The Effendi comes," and pulled the fish from the drawer.
"Isn't dinner ready yet?" he snarled; "what have you lazy women been doing?"
"All ready, Effendi," replied Ayesha. "We couldn't fry the barbounia till you came. They are better hot. Souleima, bring the olive oil and the salt. In two minutes, Effendi."
"Got any wine?" asked Kostakes, as the platter of steaming fish was set before him.
"Wine, Effendi, in a Turkish house?"
"Yes, wine; if you've got any, bring it on, I am tired and thirsty."