“Perhaps it does,” he said, scarcely above a murmur. “Perhaps it does.”
She flashed him an upward glance and looked as if she would have spoken. But he went on, suddenly passionate, without giving her time to interrupt him. “O God! It needed this to show me the vileness of the thing I have done. Asad has no such motives as had I. I wanted you that I might punish you. But he...O God!” he groaned, and for a moment put his face to his hands.
She rose slowly, a strange agitation stirring in her, her bosom galloping. But in his overwrought condition he failed to observe it. And then like a ray of hope to illumine his despair came the counsel that Fenzileh had given him, the barrier which she had said that Asad, being a devout Muslim, would never dare to violate.
“There is a way,” he cried. “There is the way suggested by Fenzileh at the promptings of her malice.” An instant he hesitated, his eyes averted. Then he made his plunge. “You must marry me.”
It was almost as if he had struck her. She recoiled. Instantly suspicion awoke in her; swiftly it drew to a conviction that he had but sought to trick her by a pretended penitence.
“Marry you!” she echoed.
“Ay,” he insisted. And he set himself to explain to her how if she were his wife she must be sacred and inviolable to all good Muslimeen, that none could set a finger upon her without doing outrage to the Prophet’s holy law, and that, whoever might be so disposed, Asad was not of those, since Asad was perfervidly devout. “Thus only,” he ended, “can I place you beyond his reach.”
But she was still scornfully reluctant.
“It is too desperate a remedy even for so desperate an ill,” said she, and thus drove him into a frenzy of impatience with her.
“You must, I say,” he insisted, almost angrily. “You must—or else consent to be borne this very night to Asad’s hareem—and not even as his wife, but as his slave. Oh, you must trust me for your own sake! You must!”