“In the rooms at the other side of this house, mademoiselle. The Um-ul-Pasha arranged that you should be lodged quite alone this last night.”
A flood of further questions was trembling on Cecil’s lips, but the courtyard had now been reached, and the mule-litter was waiting. Cecil and Um Yusuf were helped into their accustomed seats, to carry on during the ride an incoherent conversation, marked by bursts of enlightenment as fresh confirmations of Azim Bey’s words occurred to them. Arrived at their destination, the Bey met them again, and seizing Cecil’s hand as soon as she had dismounted, hurried her through rooms and passages in breathless haste.
“Oh, by the bye, mademoiselle,” he said, as they entered the house, “it was the Um-ul-Pasha’s special wish that I should tell you that the gentleman you are going to see is the one she meant you to marry.”
“So I understood,” said Cecil, much perplexed.
“Oh, well, you can believe it or not, as you like, mademoiselle.”
“Bey, what do you mean?” demanded Cecil, pausing to look back and see whether Um Yusuf was following. “Why shouldn’t I believe it when you told me so yourself?”
“Oh, never mind, mademoiselle, only come. It is all right now—all right,” he repeated. “My heart is almost bursting, I am so happy.”
“But why?” asked Cecil.
“I can’t help it, mademoiselle, I scarcely know what to do. Now draw your veil close, we are coming to the selamlik. Dear mademoiselle,” and he stopped suddenly, “you have quite forgiven me—you are sure—for his death?”
“Dear boy, why do you remind me of this just now?” asked Cecil, the tears rising to her eyes once more. “I have forgiven you, long ago.”