Then, as she opened it, a half-stifled cry of mingled astonishment and rapture escaped her.
"Rose, it is from Rose; she yet lives! Oh, my God, I thank Thee! I thank Thee!—she yet lives, but where?" she exclaimed, in a voice rendered low by excess of emotion, as she burst into tears, and read again and again the few words her sister had written.
Zohrab was attentively observing her. He saw how pure and beautiful she was; how unlike aught that he had ever looked upon before—even the fairest, softest, and most languishing maids of Iraun; for Mabel was an English girl, above the middle height, and fully rounded in all her proportions. All that he had heard of houris, of those black-eyed girls of paradise, the special care of the Angel Zamiyad, seemed to be embodied in her who was before him. Her quiet eyes seemed wondrously soft, clear, and pleading in expression, to one accustomed ever to the black, beady orbs of the Orientals; and as he gazed, he felt bewildered, bewitched by the idea that in a little time, if he was wary, all this fair beauty might be his—his as completely as his horse and sabre!
"My sister! my dear, dear sister!" exclaimed Mabel, impulsively, kissing the note and pressing it to her breast. "Oh, I must tell of this. Lady Sale, Lady Sale!" she exclaimed, looking around her; but Zohrab laid a hand on her arm, and a finger on his lip significantly.
"Lady Sahib," said he, in a low guttural voice, "you will go with me?"
"Yes, yes—oh yes; but how? to where?—and I must confer with my friends and the Khan, Saleh Mohammed."
"Nay; to do so would ruin all."
"With my friends, surely?"
"Nay; that too would be unwise: to none."
"None?"