He laid a dark hand on the girl, caressing her fondly.
"Give me a son, my pearl," he whispered. "Then my cup will be full indeed."
Annette shuddered at his touch.
She had no idea what he said. He and his language were beyond her.
As the long weeks ground out their slow and dreary course, Annette grew to suspect what her attendants now knew.
The weeks became months and Annette languished in her captor's palace; her only respite the times he was away on some marauding expedition. He loved rapine and murder, and was never happy unless dabbling in blood. Sometimes he was away for weeks together, killing and stealing, bringing slaves for the slave-market of his city, and fresh women for his harem.
During one of his absences Annette's baby arrived.
The child came a week or so before the women had expected it.
"The girl has wept so much," they said, "that her son has come before his time, to see what his mother's tears are about. And now, if Allah is kind, let us hope the child will dry them."
For a fortnight Annette was too ill to know even that she had a son.