“’Tis you are the boaster there,” said Sakr-el-Bahr. “And for the rest, I am what you and he, between you, have made me.”
“Did we make you liar and coward?—for that is what you are indeed,” she answered.
“Coward?” he echoed, in genuine surprise. “’Twill be some lie that he has told you with the others. In what, pray, was I ever a coward?”
“In what? In this that you do now; in this taunting and torturing of two helpless beings in our power.”
“I speak not of what I am,” he replied, “for I have told you that I am what you have made me. I speak of what I was. I speak of the past.”
She looked at him and she seemed to measure him with her unwavering glance.
“You speak of the past?” she echoed, her voice low. “You speak of the past and to me? You dare?”
“It is that we might speak of it together that I have fetched you all the way from England; that at last I may tell you things I was a fool to have kept from you five years ago; that we may resume a conversation which you interrupted when you dismissed me.”
“I did you a monstrous injury, no doubt,” she answered him, with bitter irony. “I was surely wanting in consideration. It would have become me better to have smiled and fawned upon my brother’s murderer.”
“I swore to you, then, that I was not his murderer,” he reminded her in a voice that shook.