"But is there no hope for me?" I exclaimed, looking wildly into the cold, statue-like face, that seemed more beautiful than ever, now it was fading from my vision.
"None," she said. Then, in a breaking voice, she murmured, "Neither for you nor for me."
"Ah, you love me still," I cried, striving to embrace her. "You will be my wife."
She struggled away from me. "No, no," she said, with a gesture of horror. "It would be sacrilege to my dead father's memory. Rather would I marry a Christian, yes, even a Catholic, than an apostate Jew like you. Leave me, I pray you; or, must I ring the bell?"
I went—a sadder and a wiser man. But even my wisdom availed me not, for when I repaired to the restaurant to impart it to the proprietor, the last consolation was denied me. He had sold his business and returned to Italy.
To-morrow I start for Turkestan.
CHAPTER XII.
THE ARITHMETIC AND PHYSIOLOGY OF LOVE.