“But was it Kurds, not Yezidis?” asked Cecil.
“Kurds, O my lady,” purred the woman. She had a soft, smooth voice, and a way of fastening her eyes sleepily on the person she addressed. Cecil, standing for a moment overwhelmed, felt an unreasoning hatred spring up in her heart against her. It was only for the first instant that the disaster crushed her, however, and she sought immediate relief in action.
“I want you to come out with me, Um Yusuf,” she said.
“But, mademoiselle, Masûd not here. You not go without him?”
“Yes, I can’t wait.”
“But they kill us, mademoiselle.”
“Then stay behind and I will go alone. Don’t you see that there is not a moment to lose?”
“If I perish, I perish,” was Um Yusuf’s mental utterance as she wrapped her sheet round her and followed her mistress without another word. She would face all the Kurds in Kurdistan rather than let mademoiselle go out by herself.
“Where you going, mademoiselle?” she asked, as they approached the gate.
“To the little Christian village down in the valley,” responded Cecil, steadily. “The priest there will help us. He can speak English.”