But Ustane did not move.
“Go, woman!”
Then she looked up, and I saw that her face was torn with passion.
“Nay, oh She. I will not go,” she answered in a choked voice: “the man is my husband, and I love him—I love him, and I will not leave him. What right hast thou to command me to leave my husband?”
I saw a little quiver pass down Ayesha’s frame, and shuddered myself, fearing the worst.
“Be pitiful,” I said in Latin; “it is but Nature working.”
“I am pitiful,” she answered coldly in the same language; “had I not been pitiful she had been dead even now.” Then, addressing Ustane: “Woman, I say to thee, go before I destroy thee where thou art!”
“I will not go! He is mine—mine!” she cried in anguish. “I took him, and I saved his life! Destroy me, then, if thou hast the power! I will not give thee my husband—never—never!”
Ayesha made a movement so swift that I could scarcely follow it, but it seemed to me that she lightly struck the poor girl upon the head with her hand. I looked at Ustane, and then staggered back in horror, for there upon her hair, right across her bronze-like tresses, were three finger-marks white as snow. As for the girl herself, she had put her hands to her head, and was looking dazed.
“Great heavens!” I said, perfectly aghast at this dreadful manifestation of human power; but She did but laugh a little.