“But you love Murad?”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Helen.
“I am sorry—I am sorry,” said the girl, thoughtfully.
“Then help me—pray help me!” whispered Helen, prayerfully, and she flung her arms round the swarthy girl, and held her to her breast. “Help me to get away, for I do not love Murad, and you do!”
The girl started and thrust Helen away, but only to cling to her in turn after a moment’s pause.
“Yes, I think I love him,” she said, softly, “though he is very cruel to me now.”
“And you hate me—very much—because—because Murad loves me?” whispered Helen, with a shudder.
“I don’t think I hate you very much,” said the girl, softly.
“You need not hate me—indeed you need not!” whispered Helen, and her voice, her very ways were changed now. The old pride was entirely gone, and she spoke with winning, womanly sweetness, full of tenderness and caress, as she nestled closer and closer to the girl. “You need not hate me,” she repeated, “for I detest this Murad—I loathe him! I love some one else! Help me, then, to get back to my own people—to escape from Murad. Help me, or I shall die!”
The girl was silent.