"I agree," Michael said. "And yet something in my heart tells me that
Madam has not done the deed."
"The little voice, Effendi, it is always true, it knows. If the little voice counsels, always obey it."
"It tells me, Abdul, that in this one instance Madam is innocent. I agree with you that if the treasure has been found, it is passing strange and points only to one thing. And yet, if I was to lay my hand on the Holy Book and swear my belief, it would not be that she was guilty of this piece of treachery."
"If Madam has not anticipated the Effendi, then the treasure is intact! The rumour is false. It is strange what wonderful treasures have melted into thin air before this, Effendi. I have known of dealers in antikas travelling for days without end, only to find . . .!" Abdul threw back his head.
"A mare's nest," Michael said. "That is what we call it, Abdul."
"A good expression, Effendi." In Abdul's heart there was anger and chagrin. Had the harlot outwitted them? Was she even now in possession of the jewels and gold which the saint had discovered, which he himself had clearly visualized?
A beatific smile lit up his face. If the woman had lain in the sheets which had made the sick man's bed, not all the jewels of the Orient or the gold of Ophir would now make her hideous face pleasing in the sight of men! What would her emeralds and topazes and cornelians be worth? They would only mock her pox-pitted face!
In Abdul's Moslem heart there was no pity. His eyes visualized and rejoiced in the sight of the treacherous woman's spoilt beauty. She had earned his hatred, and she had had it ever since the moment when she had spoken scornfully of the saint, a hatred which had grown and flourished like the Biblical bay-tree. To despise a Christian—and more especially a Christian woman—was in keeping with his Oriental mind and Moslem training; he despised Millicent not only as a woman and a Christian, but as a harlot. No evil which he could do to her would inflict the least shame upon his own soul. The contemplation of what her misery would be when she discovered that she was sickening for the smallpox afforded him a gratifying pleasure. He had drunk deeply of the cup of hate; it was not tempered with camphor.
* * * * * *
When they pitched their camp that night, Michael felt weary and depressed. A physical lassitude, which he had found it increasingly difficult to fight against for the last two days, overwhelmed him. He was glad to go to bed and try to sleep. His efforts met with little success; he felt horribly wide awake and acutely conscious of the smallest sound.