“In a word—no,” he answered her.
“Thou’lt not? Not for three thousand philips?” Her voice was charged with surprise, and he wondered was it real or assumed.
“Not for thirty thousand,” answered he. “She is mine, and I’ll not relinquish her. So since I have proclaimed my mind, and since to tarry here is fraught with peril for us both, I beg thee to depart.”
There fell a little pause, and neither of them noticed the alert interest stamped upon the white face of Rosamund. Neither of them suspected her knowledge of French which enabled her to follow most of what was said in the lingua franca they employed.
Fenzileh drew close to him. “Thou’lt not relinquish her, eh?” she asked, and he was sure she sneered. “Be not so confident. Thou’lt be forced to it, my friend—if not to me, why then, to Asad. He is coming for her, himself, in person.”
“Asad?” he cried, startled now.
“Asad-ed-Din,” she answered, and upon that resumed her pleading. “Come, then! It were surely better to make a good bargain with me than a bad one with the Basha.”
He shook his head and planted his feet squarely. “I intend to make no bargain with either of you. This slave is not for sale.”
“Shalt thou dare resist Asad? I tell thee he will take her whether she be for sale or not.”
“I see,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “And the fear of this, then, is the source of thy whim to acquire her for thyself. Thou art not subtle, O Fenzileh. The consciousness that thine own charms are fading sets thee trembling lest so much loveliness should entirely cast thee from thy lord’s regard, eh?”