"Tell them that their Prophet was a precious old——"
What she was about to designate him of Mecca, we know not, for Denzil placed his hand on her lips. The sharp black eyes of the Khan detected something in this action. They sparkled, while his face grew red as his cap with sudden anger, and with hands clenched and uplifted, he exclaimed,
"Now by the seven heavens and the veil of unity, through which the Prophet passed in his vision, but this is too much! You are either married or not? Do you laugh at my beard, Kaffirs? If she is your wife, I shall respect her, nor send her, as I intended, to Bhokara or Toorkistan for sale; if she is not, then so much the worse for her!"
And, as he spoke, the softness of his Persian dialect turned, in his anger, hoarse and guttural as that of an Afghan.
"Your wife, Denzil," exclaimed Rose, blushing with mingled amazement and annoyance, when the first part of this speech was told her; "I do care more for you than for any one else—but—but—"
"What, dearest Rose?"
"This is a little too much."
"Consider—the danger—the alternative."
"Must I pass myself off as such?"
"It would appear so, dear Rose, for your own sake dissemble."