By now Mea had recovered herself, for she felt the crisis of her life had come, and her bold spirit rose to meet it. She grew quiet, quick, resourceful.
“Is it so?” she said. “Then that old teacher, he must be, what you call him, a prophet—or perhaps he hear you come. You want seek Lord Devene, him whom you spit on when he was Rupert Ullershaw Bey? Yes? Well, Zahed no look as though he wish to go away with you, his face all change,” and she pointed to Rupert’s agonised countenance.
“I am speaking to my husband, not to you, woman,” said Edith.
Mea shook her beautiful head and smiled.
“Woman wrong word. I great lady here; lady whom he love but no marry—till you die, alas!”
Rupert still seemed unable to speak, and Edith positively choked with wrath, so, perhaps to prevent any awkward pause, Mea continued the conversation.
“Who those?” she asked, pointing with her finger at Tabitha and Dick, who, with the interpreter, were making their way towards the platform. “Your mama come to look after you? And him? Oh! I know. That gentleman you love. Him for who you turn Zahed into the street. Oh! I know, I know. Old woman down there with white head,” and she pointed to Bakhita, who was watching all this scene with the grimmest interest, “she have magic; she show me his ugly face in water. He swim about in water with the tail of a snake, head—man, heart—snake, you understand, yes? Bakhita show you some magic, too, if you like.”
Now at last Rupert shook himself free from his faintness.
“Edith,” he said, “why have you come here?”
“Really I begin to wonder,” she answered, while she gathered herself together, “for I don’t seem very welcome, do I? Also this place isn’t pleasant, its inhabitants are too fond of personal remarks.”