From the group of hovels close at hand came women's voices and the cluck of hens; over his head, among the branches of the oak-tree, doves were cooing. The plumes of the two palm-trees hung dead still amid the sunshine! the shade in which he sat was quite unruffled. A train of camels sauntered by along the sandy road, with clanging bells, their driver chanting softly to himself. Iskender's heart went out in yearning to the peaceful scene. He envied the dwellers in those low mud-hovels, who led their simple lives with praise to Allah; envied the poor camel-driver singing in the sunshine as he jogged along. Alas for him, he had no part with these, but was a Protestant, a stranger in his native land, a monstrous creation of those English who had cast him off, a byword, a bad joke. The iridescent plumage of some pigeons, which, emboldened by his stillness, came strutting and pecking on the ground before him, drew his gaze; and, half-unconsciously, he began to trace their likeness on the page before him. While thus engaged he heard a stealthy tread behind him, and felt a breath on his neck as some one leaned above him to inspect his work. In a flash he remembered the beautiful child, the daughter of Mîtri, and his heart beat fiercely. The violent change of emotion paralysed him for some seconds; then he turned round suddenly and made a grab. The girl suppressed a scream, and tried to run, but he had caught her arm. With joyful eagerness, though the tears of despair were still wet on his face, he pleaded:
"Why wouldst fly from me, my soul? Why art thou here if not to talk with me?"
"The picture," she murmured angrily, pulling against him hard, with face averted.
"The picture is it? Only stay till it is finished, and I will give it thee with pleasure."
"No, no, I tell thee; let me go or I will tear thy eyes out! Art thou not a Brûtestânt, a dog? Thy touch is defilement. How canst thou continue in that lying faith? Art thou not scared each night at the thought of the devils and the eternal fires?"
She gave up resistance, and stood surveying him with great round eyes of horror, fascinated by the sight of a creature doomed to everlasting torment. The feel of her slight brown wrist was like a snake for coolness. Iskender ventured to caress it with his fingers. But at the touch she snatched it from him angrily, and sprang to a safe distance.
"Thou hast been weeping; why?" she asked with a cool directness, which was like a sword-thrust in Iskender's heart. His woe broke out afresh.
"O Lord!" he blubbered. "I have none to love me. My Emîr, whom I love truly, casts me off. The Brûtestânts, who brought me up, despise me. The Christians call me dog!"
"O man, stop crying, for it frightens me." Nesîbeh came again and leaned over him. "Be sure thy sorrow is from the hand of Allah to punish thy errors and disgust thee with them. My father says that calamities are often sent as warnings to the reprobate. Be thou warned, O my dear, and return to the Church. Then our Lord will be pleased with thee, and make men love thee."
"And thou—wilt thou too love me, or still call me dog?" Iskender seized her hand again, though she resisted furiously. But the words were cut in his mouth by a heavy hand which smote him sideways, deafening one ear; and when he recovered from sensations of a general earthquake, it was to find himself alone with Mîtri.