'Yes, for the danger.'
'One dear little kiss—or a thousand if you will let me give them!' I exclaimed, and threw my arm round her.
She drew down the yashmack, and I pressed my lip to hers, again and again.
Until this moment my Oriental had never perhaps known what love was. Risk, life, death, all were forgotten! I remembered only the charm and the opportunity.
'And so in Frankistan, the rose is also an emblem of love?' she whispered, as we walked slowly hand in hand towards the town, the lights of which were sparkling in the distance.
'Yes, Iola.'
'Alas!'
'Why?'
'Because the rose lives but for a day—and if it should be so with love?'
'Why that thought, and why these doubts—my love will live for ever, Iola!'