"Till to-morrow! The Sultan will give thee audience to-morrow," said the Hakim Bashi imperturbably, and, making a mock respectful salutation, he withdrew from the apartment.
Melisselda had been dosing in an inner chamber after the fatigue of the journey, but the concluding thunders of the duologue had aroused her, and she heard the physician's farewell words. She now parted the hangings and looked through at Sabbataï, her loveliness half-framed, half-hidden by the tapestry. Her face was wreathed in a heavenly smile.
"Sabbataï!" she breathed.
He turned a frowning gaze upon her. "Thou art merry!" he said bitterly.
"Is not the hour come?" she cried joyously.
"Yea, the hour is come," he murmured.
"The hour of thy final trial and triumph! The longed-for hour of thy appearance before the Sultan, when thou wilt take the crown from his head and place it on—"
Instead of completing the sentence, she ran to take his head to her bosom. But he repulsed her embracing arms. She drew back in consternation. It was the first time she had known him rough, not only with her, but with any creature.
"Leave me! Leave me!" he cried huskily.
"Nay, thou needest me." And her forgiving arms spread towards him in fresh tenderness.