"Count Corti, where is"—
Mahommed caught sight of the Count's face.
"Oh, my poor Mirza!"
A volume of words could not have so delicately expressed sympathy as did that altered tone.
Taking off his steel glove, the fitful Conqueror extended the bare hand, and the Count, partially recalled to the situation by the gracious offer, sunk to his knees, and carried the hand to his lips.
"I have kept the faith, my Lord," he said in Turkish, his voice scarcely audible. "This is she behind me—upon the throne of her fathers. Receive her from me, and let me depart."
"My poor Mirza! We left the decision to God, and he has decided. Arise, and hear me now."
To the notables closing around, he said, imperiously: "Stand not back. Come up, and hear me."
Stepping past the Count, then, he stood before the Princess. She arose without removing her veil, and would have knelt; but Mahommed moved nearer, and prevented her.
The training of the politest court in Europe was in her action, and the suite looking on, used to slavishness in captives, and tearful humility in women, he held her with amazement; nor could one of them have said which most attracted him, her queenly composure or her simple grace.