"You are sad, Butheita," whispered he, approaching her.
She cast down her eyes before his glance. "You are going away," said she. "Father is already saddling the dromedary, and you are about to leave us."
"I must go," said be, gently. "Duty calls me away, while love would gladly hold me back. But I am a man, and must listen to the voice of duty only. They say you are to accompany, and show me the way?"
She shook her head resolutely. "I beg you, say that you do not wish it, that you desire my father to accompany you."
"And why should I do so?" asked he, gazing searchingly into her countenance. "Do you hate me so that you are unwilling to pass an hour in my company? Did I conduct myself unbecomingly while we were together in the palanquin this morning? Why will you not accord me the happiness of riding across the desert with you again? Why do you hate me?"
She remained silent for a while, and then slowly shook her head. "No, it is not that; it is something quite different. It pains me to see you leave. This morning, I could ride with you across the desert; then I did not know you, and did not fear you."
"And now you are afraid of me?" said he, gazing in her eyes intently.
"No, not afraid of you, but afraid of myself," said she, in a low voice. "I am afraid I might love you; and that may not be," cried she, in a firmer tone. "You are a great and distinguished man, and would laugh at the poor Bedouin child if she should regard you otherwise than as a great sarechsme, who had condescended to honor her father's tent by accepting his daughter's hospitality. I had best not ride with you. And I have already told father so."
"And the reason, too, Butheita? " said he, smiling.
"No, sarechsme! I told father I was weary with my long ride. He loves me dearly, and, although he had intended returning with the bey to collect the spoils from the field, he is, nevertheless, ready to accompany you if you will permit him."