'Your mother—you remember her, then?'
'Oh, yes—yes! tall, beautiful, pale, and sad!' she added, throwing her white hands and dark eyes upwards; 'her blood—her hot blood—came over me as she died!'
'Iola! her blood—then she was killed?'
'Murdered—she was barbarously murdered before my eyes—for she was a Greek, and the wife of the gallant Demetrius Vidimo.'
'Good heavens—what is this you tell me?'
'The truth,' she added, weeping; 'the terrible truth—you have heard of my father, then?'
'And you are—'
'Iola Vidimo.'
'The sister of Constantine—'
'Oh, Mohammed! how know you that? I had a brother—a dear little brother, so named. Can you tell me aught of him? Speak—speak—have you lost your tongue?'