“That is, I was a favourite of the Bishop’s at one time”—he murmured regretfully—“and I suppose I am now, only I fear that this matter of conscience——”
“Oh, it is a matter of conscience?” said El-Râmi slowly—“You are sure of that?”
“Quite sure of that!” and the Reverend Francis Anstruther sighed profoundly.
“‘Thus conscience does make cowards of us all——’”
“I beg your pardon?” and the clergyman opened his eyes a little.
“Nay, I beg yours!—I was quoting Hamlet.”
“Oh!”
There was a silence. El-Râmi bent his dark flashing eyes on his visitor, who seemed a little confused by the close scrutiny. It was the morning after the circumstances narrated in the previous chapter,—the clock marked ten minutes to noon,—the weather was brilliant and sunshiny, and the temperature warm for the uncertain English month of May. El-Râmi rose suddenly and threw open the window nearest him, as if he found the air oppressive.
“Why did you seek me out?” he demanded, turning towards the reverend gentleman once more.
“Well, it was really the merest accident——”