“My beauty is my adornment,” she replied, “not these gems and gold. Moreover, it is nought to me what he thinks, for he hates me, and has reviled me.”
Metem lifted his eyebrows incredulously and went on: “Still, I will not deprive you of this woman’s gear. Look now, I value it, and at no high figure,” and drawing out his writer’s palette and a slip of papyrus, he wrote upon it an acknowledgment of debt, which he asked her to sign.
“This document, lady,” he said, “I will present to your father—or your husband—at a convenient season, nor do I fear that either of them will refuse to honour it. And now I take my leave, for you—have an appointment to keep—and,” he added with emphasis, “the time of moonrise is at hand.”
“Your meaning, I pray you?” she asked. “I have no appointment at moonrise, or at any other hour.”
Metem bowed politely, but in a fashion which showed that he put no faith in her words.
“Again I ask your meaning, merchant,” she said, “for your dark hintings are scarcely to be borne.”
The Phœnician looked at her; there was a ring of truth in her voice.
“Lady,” he said, “will you indeed deny, after I have seen it written by yourself, that within some few minutes you meet the prince Aziel beneath a great tree in the palace gardens, there—so said the scroll—to ask his aid in this matter of the suit of Ithobal?”
“Written by myself?” she said wonderingly. “Meet the prince Aziel beneath a tree in the palace gardens? Never have I thought of it.”
“Yet, lady, the scroll I saw purported to be written by you, and your own woman bore it to the prince. As I think, she sits yonder at the end of the chamber, for I know her shape.”