Gustav strode up to her and said in an unfamiliar voice, chill and remote like an echo:
“I am going.”
The pleasant old woman laid down her jar, dried her hands, and took hold of his, tightening upon them with an inspiriting and sympathetic grasp.
“My poor child, may God and His saints go with you! I know all. By my faith, I see no reason why you should go. The Turk, we know, is a heretic, but you would marry my Inarime according to the Greek rite. You would be faithful to her as a Christian should be.”
“Faithful!” cried Gustav, vehemently. “Gladly would I die for her.” But he did not see that of the two this is much the easier to do.
“Yes, yes,” said Annunziata, “young men in love talk very tall; when the fit passes, they do very little. But I like you, and I am sorry for you. Go away now; it is better so. Be assured that your interests here will not suffer by being left in my hands.”
The tears were perilously near his eyelids; he struggled with rising emotion, flung himself round, and in a moment his figure made a vanishing and graceful shadow in the upper air. Selaka was within, pacing the room in perplexed thought, when the young man entered.
“Sir, is this your last word? Must I go and not bear with me the hope of returning?” demanded Gustav.
“You must,” said Selaka, gravely, “you cannot undo your birth, nor can I.”
Gustav waited not for another word, but rushed into his room, hastily gathered his things together, and reappeared in the little parlour with his portmanteau in his hand. He stood in front of Selaka, and looked at him steadily.