She laughed, but her dark eyes fairly glittered:
“My martyrdom is ending, God be thanked! And then I shall be free to serve where my heart is ... in Alsace!... Alsace!—forever French!”
In the white light she saw the sweat break out on the man’s forehead—saw him grope for his handkerchief—and draw out a knife instead—never taking his eyes off her.
She turned to run; but he had already blocked the way to the stone steps; and now he came creeping toward her, white as a cadaver, distracted from sheer terror, and rubbing the knife flat against his thigh.
“So you shall do thees—a filth to me—eh, Nihla?” he whispered with blanched lips. “It ees on me, your frien’, you spring to keel me, eh, my leopardess? Ver’ well. But firs’ I teach you somethings you don’ know!—thees-a way, my Nihla!”
He came toward her stealthily, moving more swiftly as she put the stone basin of the pool between them and cast an agonised glance up at the distant terrace.
“Jim!” she cried frantically. “Jim! Help me, Jim!”
The gay din of the music above drowned her cry; she fled as Ferez darted toward her, but again he doubled and sprang back to bar the stone steps, and she halted, white and breathless, yet poised for instant flight.
Again and again she called out desperately for aid; the noise of the orchestra smothered her cry. And if, indeed, anybody from the terrace above chanced to glance down, it is likely that they supposed these two were skylarking merrymakers at some irresponsible game of catch-who-can.