‘Who art thou?’ he cried; ‘and who has dared to admit thee?’
She could not reply; a few broken words escaped her; and unable any longer to stand or to control herself, she fell at his feet, and clasping his knees sobbed aloud.
‘Thou art fair—very beautiful,’ he said, as he raised her up and gazed upon her features, for her veil had fallen; ‘who art thou?’
‘One who has loved thee long! I saw thee once—I have lived upon thy look,’ she said confusedly.
‘Thou art not a tuwaif; thy speech is not like theirs.’
‘I am not.’
‘Thou art a wife then, or thou wouldst not wear that ring?’
‘Why should I tell a lie?—I am; my lord is old—he is absent—he loves me not—he has neglected and thrown me aside for another. I have seen thee, O Patél, and my liver is become water; I have come to thee—pity me and love me, as I would love thee!’
Kasim was sorely tempted; her beauty, her large lustrous eyes sparkling with passion, shone upon him; she hung on him; her hand, as it touched his, was hot and trembling. He raised her up and caressed her, and she threw herself upon his broad chest and again sobbed—it was with passion.
Then, even then, a thought flashed into his mind, quicker than light; could she be the Khan’s wife; could he be the man, old, absent, who had flung her aside for another? his heart felt as though it made a mighty bound within his bosom. ‘Tell me,’ he cried, ‘by your soul—say, for my mind misgives me—tell me, art thou not the wife of Rhyman Khan?’