“She was. Sometimes. I myself have only come to see you now and then. We—we had a difficulty in getting away.”
“How good! How good! But the difficulty?”
“It is in the fact,” said Miss Morgan mournfully, “that my sweet young friend and pupil is sold to the Shah.”
“Sold to the Shah!” cried Edgar. “She, a mere child, so beautiful, so winning! Oh, Miss Morgan, I have dreamt of her every hour, and indeed—I—I—have got to love her. And she is gone. Oh, how horrible!”
“Nay, nay, you misunderstand me somewhat. Beebee has not gone. She is but promised to the Sultan or King. When she comes of age, or rather when she is two years older, then—she will be a slave indeed. Oh, I assure you, sir, it breaks my heart to lose her.”
At this moment the door quietly opened, and Beebee herself entered, followed by the priest-physician. She started slightly when she noticed that Edgar was now awake and sensible.
He held out his hand. It was a very thin and a very white one.
“I know all, Beebee,” he said. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness, and you have come to me at great risk too. I understand what that risk has been, and I understand also Persian laws and Persian fathers. You have risked your honour and your life.”
“I could not help coming,” said Beebee innocently, “because I thought you would die. But now, we must part. We must never meet again. It is fate.”
“Must it, indeed, be so?” said Edgar gloomily.