The old Sheik looked in wonder at St. Just; such a sacrifice was beyond his comprehension.
"How he must have loved you, child," he said. "I loved your mother, more than all others in the world; but, even for her, I would not have given up my country or my faith; have sheathed my sword for ever and exchanged the excitement of the battle field, the clash of weapons crossed in deadly combat, the rattle of musketry, the deep boom of guns, the exultant shouts of victory, the pursuit of the flying foe—all this; for the smiles and gentle dalliance of any woman, however fair. Oh! no, I could not have made the sacrifice. I marvel not that he dislikes to dwell on it. We will talk of it no more. Child, you must be no niggard in your love for him; even then you will be his debtor in devotion."
But the excitement he had undergone was telling on him, and he sank back exhausted.
"I am tired, I can talk no more," he murmured. "I feel that I can sleep."
He closed his eyes, and, in a few seconds, he was slumbering peacefully.
"Come," said Halima, "we will withdraw for a space, and return anon."
All this while, the old woman in the corner had remained motionless and silent.
Now, for the first time, Halima caught sight of her. With a little cry of pleasure, she ran forward to her and threw herself on her knees in front of her.
"Nana!" (Nurse) she cried, "I had not seen you. Surely you have not forgotten your little Halima."
Instantly the old woman's features seemed to wake to life; the look of apathy departed, and what was meant for a smile of pleasure took its place; but St. Just thought it ghastly. "My child," she cried, and opened her arms to the dainty form before her. Halima, still kneeling, bent forward and embraced her. The old woman kissed her, crooning over her the while. Then both women gabbled away in low tones, but so rapidly that St. Just, though now a fair Arab scholar, could scarce catch a word.