“Ahleka,” she said, “I was going to ask why you did not join the young men in the festival of the maidens.”
“Oh, my love, could I join the young men to be chosen in marriage when she, whom I adore, does not join the maidens?”
“But I thought all unmarried men were obliged to join the ranks.”
“That is true, but the chief of each village is an exception, so I need not join unless I wish.”
While they had been talking, they had found a soft bank of deep moss under wide-spread trees. On this bank they now reclined, Ahleka holding Mabel’s hand in both of his.
“According to our custom I should have waited until you declared your love for me, but my father has explained the customs of your land to me, and I—oh, my love, my fair white lily, my precious moon maiden, can you love Ahleka?”
She raised her eyes to his, but before she could answer him, he had showered warm kisses over her face, neck and shoulders, in a transport of tenderness.
“Ah,” he cried, “if you say no; you love me not, I have kissed you, and that is happiness.” Then, as she lay passive in his arms, it filled him with a horrible dread, and he exclaimed:
“How can I expect that you will love me, who am only a savage at most, whose skin is black! What do I think of?”
“Do not speak so Ahleka, I do love you,” she whispered, putting her arm about his neck and nestling closely in his embrace; “I do love you; how could I help loving you after all your kindness to us.”