“Can I promise, not knowing? But I love you,” she cried, and her voice rose in passionate protest, as though she felt the blood of feeling rise within her like a mighty sea and encompass her to her doom.
They looked at each other an instant gravely—a look of immeasurable love! And while the flaming heralds were ebbing back into the sea, and the sunken sun followed them through a bed of crimson and orange, drawing a purple pall over his vacated place, these two were locked in each other’s arms. Hush, foolish birds! There is no song of yours sweet enough to pierce their ears. The harmonies of love have swelled upon the silence, and its song is measured by their heart-beats.
Inside, two others were holding sharp counsel over the destiny of this miserable privileged pair.
“Can nothing satisfactory be settled, Pericles?” asked Helene.
“Certainly. He goes,” retorted her brother, bringing down his upper lip shortly upon this unpleasant decision.
“But he is rich, Pericles. Be a sane father for once in your life. A rich man! Panaghia mou! You are an idiot.”
“He is a Turk.”
“Oh, a Turk! Never fear, I will keep a careful eye upon him. With me there will be no danger. He will neither desert Inarime, nor outrage her with other wives.”
“I have not thought of that,” said Pericles, reflectively.