"And yet, though we have but just met for the first time for years, you would send me from you. Oh! not to-night, my Halima," he cried imploringly.
There was a sensual sparkle in her eye.
"Nay, not to-night," she answered; "after so long a parting, I cannot spare you yet. But we must be circumspect. You shall pass here merely as my guest. I can so arrange it as to avoid suspicion."
"A hungry man is fain to accept a crust; I must make the most of what you offer," was his reply.
Now, whether throughout this burning interview Halima had spoken from her heart, whether even she had persuaded herself that all she said was true—that she had no thought for any other than her husband—need not be stated here. But so much may be chronicled, that he implicitly believed her.
They had so much to say to one another that the hours flew by unheeded; but, at last, Halima recalled herself to her shortcomings in the matter of the men who had accompanied St. Just—or rather brought him captive—and she sprang up suddenly.
"I don't know what our friends will think of us," she laughed; "I declare I had quite forgotten them; and all through you, you naughty fellow. I must send word to them that I shall be happy to receive them."
"What friends?" inquired her husband, and his tone betrayed annoyance.
"Those who brought you here."
"And who are they?"