Rosamund sank down upon the divan, and sat there with bowed head, her hands folded in her lap. Sakr-el-Bahr stood by in silence for a long moment contemplating her.
“Eat,” he bade her at last. “You will need strength and courage, and neither is possible to a fasting body.”
She shook her head. Despite her long fast, food was repellent. Anxiety was thrusting her heart up into her throat to choke her.
“I cannot eat,” she answered him. “To what end? Strength and courage cannot avail me now.”
“Never believe that,” he said. “I have undertaken to deliver you alive from the perils into which I have brought you, and I shall keep my word.”
So resolute was his tone that she looked up at him, and found his bearing equally resolute and confident.
“Surely,” she cried, “all chance of escape is lost to me.”
“Never count it lost whilst I am living,” he replied. She considered him a moment, and there was the faintest smile on her lips.
“Do you think that you will live long now?” she asked him.
“Just as long as God pleases,” he replied quite coolly. “What is written is written. So that I live long enough to deliver you, then... why, then, faith I shall have lived long enough.”