“Yes; dead as I am now.”
At this point Bakhita, who had been waiting outside for two hours in the cold, entered and remarked sarcastically that Rupert’s tent was ready. He took the hint at once and retired. The old lady watched him go, then turned to Mea and said:
“Well, niece, what have you settled?”
Mea told her, whereon the grim Bakhita burst into a great laugh.
“Strange children you are indeed, both of you,” she said. “Yet who shall say there is no wisdom in your childishness, who have learned that there are other things beyond this passing show? At the least, you seem happy in it—for the present.”
“I am happy for the present, for the future, and forever,” answered Mea.
“Then that is well, though it would seem that the old line must die with you, unless you change your mind and, after all, marry some other man.”
“I marry no other man, Bakhita.”
“So be it. Why should not the old line die? Everything has an end, like the gods of Egypt. If it were not so, new things could not begin. It does not matter so long as you are happy. But though you have found a new faith, laugh no more at my ancient magic, Mea. Did not the sinking boat sail back to your arms that night?”
“It sailed back, Bakhita, and when it sails forth again mine sails with it. I laugh at nothing. Old faiths and new, they are all shadows of the truth—for those who believe in them, Bakhita.”