I had much to tell her, but how was I to fashion the tidings that her brother had been shot in the presence of her husband; and that he—Hussein—was one of those brutal soldiers who, after a vain contention for the person of her mother, had so barbarously pistolled her!
'Do you know this coral cross, Iola?'
She uttered a cry.
'It was my beloved mother's, and on that awful day at Acre, sixteen years ago, she tied it round the neck of my boy-brother, when we were separated. Tell me about Constantine—does he live?'
'It is a long story, Iola, and one that cannot be related here; but you forget yourself—you are excited—your voice may be overheard, and I may be seen. Where can we meet—at—the Hermitage?'
'No.'
'Where?'
'Here.'
'Here?'
'In these apartments.'