He then resumed his first position, and whilst the lion, restrained by him, continued its low roaring, with its eyes fixed on a large spot of blood on the carpet, and addressing Baïla, without appearing to notice the emotions of terror by which she was agitated, said:
“Yes, the giaour is for us three—for each a part. For me, his head; for the lion, his body; and for thee, my beautiful rose of Incour—my faithful, for thee, his heart. Has he not given thee that heart? Well, go take it.”
Baïla, undecided, troubled with horror, knew not what meaning to attach to his words.
“Go, take it,” repeated Djezzar. “look, behold! powerless to defend himself, does he not appear himself to offer it to thee? Go, my soul, and if thy dagger is not enough for the work, use mine.”
The odalisk bent toward him—“Thou art sporting with me, Ali—is it not so?” she murmured in his ear.
“Dost thou not hear me, or art thou unwilling to understand me?” he replied, in a formidable tone. “This man dies—dies at once, by thy hand, or I shall believe thee to be his accomplice, and thy head shall fall before his. I swear it, by Mahomet and the four caliphs.”
Baïla, having to choose between inflicting or receiving death, felt an icy coldness in her veins; her forehead became lividly pale.
“Thou hesitatest!” said the pacha.
She carried a trembling hand to her dagger.
“Take mine,” he said.