“In God’s Name!” said El-Râmi.
“In God’s Name!”
“By Christ’s Death!”
Féraz trembled. In the particular form of religion professed by himself and his brother, this was the most solemn and binding vow that could be taken. And his voice was faint and unsteady as he repeated it—
“By Christ’s Death!”
El-Râmi put aside the crucifix.
“That is well;—” he said, in mild accents which contrasted agreeably with his previous angry tone—“Such oaths are chronicled in heaven, remember,—and whoever breaks his sworn word is accursed of the gods. But you,—you will keep your vow, Féraz,—and ... you will also forget the name of Lilith,—if I choose!”
Féraz stood mute and motionless,—he would have said something, but somehow words failed him to express what was in his mind. He was angry, he said to himself,—he had sworn a foolish oath against his will, and he had every right to be angry—very angry,—but with whom? Surely not with his brother—his friend,—his protector for so many years? As he thought of this, shame and penitence and old affection grew stronger and welled up in his heart, and he moved slowly towards El-Râmi, with hands outstretched.
“Forgive me;”—he said humbly. “I have offended you—I am sorry. I will show my repentance in whatever way you please,—but do not, El-Râmi—do not ask me, do not force me to forget the name of Lilith,—it is like a note in music, and it cannot do you harm that I should think of it sometimes. For the rest I will obey you faithfully,—and, for what is past, I ask your pardon.”
El-Râmi took his hands and pressed them affectionately in his own.