His throat rose and choked further speech. He held out his arms, and her head sought protection on his breast.
“Inarime, are you not shamed? Leave that man’s embrace. What! do you not see in him the long years of servitude and degradation under which your country groaned? Are you less proud, less worthy of your glorious ancestors than the Greek woman who flung herself and her babes from a rock into the engulfing sea rather than yield to Turkish embraces? Does Hellenic blood run so sluggishly in your veins that revolt does not cry for shame? Come to me, my daughter. That man and you must part.”
“Have pity, sir, I beg you,” almost shouted Gustav, lifting up his head, which had been bent upon the girl’s, and still holding her form closely to him. “Is there no eloquence in her tears? Can I say naught to shake your harsh resolve?”
“Naught. Young tears are soon dried. Inarime!”
She lifted her head from Gustav’s breast, and held her throat to keep back the fierce sobs that shook her.
“Father,” she said, “have I ever disobeyed you? Have I ever once deliberately thwarted or offended you?”
“Never, my beloved child, never. To me you have been a reward and a support.”
“Then, father, by that past unblotted by tear or wrangle, by the memory of my mother, by your own vanished youth, I beseech you, spare me! I love him, father, leave him to me,” she cried.
Her hands were in Gustav’s, and her praying eyes pierced the heart of Selaka.
“My child, you know not what you ask. I tell you, the man is a Turk. It is mad, it is base of you to be willing to give yourself to him. Do not force me to renounce you.”