"No, no, it is no good, Chunda Lal. I cannot hear you."
"You think"—the Hindu's voice was hoarse with emotion—"that he will trace you—and kill you?"
"Trace me!" exclaimed Miska with sudden scorn. "Is it necessary for him to trace me? Am I not already dead except for him! Would I be his servant, his lure, his slave for one little hour, for one short minute, if my life was my own!"
Beads of perspiration gleamed upon the brown forehead of the Hindu, and his eyes turned from the door to the eastern wall and back again to Miska. He was torn by conflicting desires, but suddenly came resolution.
"Listen, then." His voice was barely audible. "If I tell you that your life is your own—if I reveal to you a secret which I learned in the house of Abdul Rozan in Cairo——"
Miska watched him with eyes in which a new, a wild expression was dawning.
"If I tell you that life and not death awaits you, will you come away to-night, and we sail for India to-morrow! Ah! I have money! Perhaps I am rich as well as—someone; perhaps I can buy you the robes of a princess"—he drew her swiftly to him—"and cover those white arms with jewels."
Miska shrank from him.
"All this means nothing," she said. "How can the secret of Abdul
Rozan help me to live! And you—you will be dead before I die!—yes!
One little hour after he finds out that I go!"
"Listen again," hissed Chunda Lal intensely. "Promise me, and I will open for you a gate of life. For you, Miska, I will do it, and we shall be free. He will never find out. He shall not be living to find out!"