“Does a man stoop to do in a foreign land what he would not do in his own country—dare not do?—One is so helpless—a woman! Under cover of an old friend ship—ah!” She suddenly turned, and, before he could say a word, disappeared inside the house. He spoke her name once, twice; he ventured inside the house, and called, but she did not come. He made his way to the veranda, and was about to leave for the shore, when he heard a step behind him. He turned quickly. It was the Circassian girl, Mata.
He spoke to her in Arabic, and she smiled at him. “What is it?” he asked, for he saw she had come from her mistress.
“My Lady begs to excuse—but she is tired,” she said in English, which she loved to use.
“I am to go on—to prison, then?”
“I suppose. It has no matter. My Lady is angry. She has to say, ‘Thank you, good-bye.’ So, goodbye,” she added naively, and held out her hand.
Kingsley laughed, in spite of his discomfiture, and shook it.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am My Lady’s slave,” she said proudly.
“No, no—her servant. You can come and go as you like. You have wages.”
“I am Mata, the slave—My Lady’s slave. All the world knows I am her slave. Was I not given her by the Khedive whose slave I was? May the leaves of life be green always, but I am Mata the slave,” she said stubbornly, shaking her head.