"Allah has been good to us," said he, "exceedingly good, in creating such beautiful beings as women to please us. You are more beautiful than any I have seen—too much so to be left to gladden a Kaffir's heart; so you shall remain with me, and be the light of my eyes."
"Wretch!—fool that I have been! Rose, Rose!" gasped Mabel, scarcely knowing what she said.
"I love you," he resumed softly, while his hot clasp tightened on her hand, and his lips approached her ear; "you hear—and understand me?"
"You love me!" exclaimed Mabel rashly, with proud scorn in her tone, despite the deadly fear that gathered in her heart, and while her eyes flashed with an expression to which the Oriental was quite unaccustomed in a captive woman.
"Yes, I love you—I, Zohrab," was the somewhat egotistical response.
"You know not what love is; but, even if you did, you shall not dare to talk of it to me. That you may have a fancy, I can quite well understand; but a fancy, or a passion, and love are very different things. What do you, or what can you, know of me?"
"That you are beautiful: what more is required?"
"Enough of this—I am weary. Take me instantly to my sister, or back to my friends who are with Saleh Mohammed; for if I were to denounce you to Ackbar Khan, how much think you your head would be worth?"
"Much less than yours, certainly."
"And at what does he—this other barbarian—value me?"