“But why—why will he beat you?” he demanded, in astonishment.
“Because—no, it is nothing.” She would not speak.
Oman took her by the shoulders. “Why will he beat you?” he asked, stupidly.
“He is my brother-in-law,” she responded, as if that were quite sufficient to explain any cruelty.
“He desired money,” muttered Oman to himself. “Ah—ah—I see! I have no money for you! I!”
Poussa quivered under his touch, and her answer was only a faint moan.
“Oh! Oh! It is unendurable! Do you hear? It is unendurable! Let me go after him! I will tell him.”
“No.” The word was firm. “No. He would only beat you. He is master in this village. I am used to it. See, I will not weep—I weep no more. Come, we will sleep now. Let us sleep.”
But Oman was not satisfied. He had too much of the woman in him to be indifferent to the prospect of a woman’s suffering. Because of charity to him, a woman was to be beaten! The thought was too much. In his agitation, he began to pace up and down the little room, thinking—suffering—once again cursing his fate. Suddenly something caught his attention. In the dark corner of the room, beside the unshuttered window, was a rough hand-loom, half filled with a piece of badly woven cloth. Before this Oman paused, considering.
“Thou sayest thy husband’s brother is a weaver?” he asked.