She sat up and confronted him with eyes of fire.
“Oh, brute!” she panted; “monster! rabid dog! I have had enough of you and your behaviour. I shall leave you. To-morrow I shall go to the Consul and tell him how you struck me!”
“You shall not leave this room. I am your master.”
“Lock the door, block up the window, bind me, guard me, I still will find some way to let the Consul know. You shall be punished—I have sworn it. I have had enough, I say. I shall return to England.”
“Your talk is madness! Have a care! The punishment is death for one renouncing El Islâm. Say, is that your meaning? Your own slaves will kill you!”
He put the question in blood-curdling tones. But Barakah, dissolved in tears, made no rejoinder. A minute later he was once more at her side, imploring mercy, declaring her his light of life, his pearl of pearls. She still whimpered, “I shall tell the Consul.”
At last she fell into a troubled sleep.
When she woke again it was broad daylight; her coffee and a kind of pancake, which composed her breakfast every morning, steamed upon a tray beside her. Yûsuf had left the room. He came back presently, and, kneeling down, implored her to forget his madness. Enjoying her advantage in a listless way, she put on an exaggerated air of feebleness, and moaned: