Aghast he stood, and the knife fell from his fingers. The countenance revealed was amazingly beautiful, so charming, indeed, that instantly he became entranced by its loveliness, and stood speechless and abashed.
She was not more than eighteen, and her features, fair as an Englishwoman’s, were regular, with a pair of brilliant dark eyes set well apart under brows blackened by kohl, and a forehead half hidden by strings of golden sequins that tinkled musically each time she moved. Upon her head was set jauntily a little scarlet chachia, trimmed heavily with seed-pearls, while her neck was encircled by strings of roughly-cut jacinths and turquoises, and in the folds of her silken haick there clung the subtle perfumes of the harem.
Slowly she lifted her fine eyes, still wet with tears, to his, and, with her breast rising and falling quickly, trembled before him, fearing his wrath.
“Loosen thy tongue’s strings?” he cried at last, grasping her slim white wrist with his rough, hard hand. “Thou art from Afo, the City in the Sky, and thou hast gained knowledge of our intended attack?”
“Thy lips, O stranger, speak the truth,” she faltered.
“Why art thou here, and alone, so far from thine home on the crest of yonder peak?” he inquired, gazing at her in wonderment.
“I came hither for the same purpose as thyself,” she answered seriously, looking straight into his face—“to crave Allah’s blessing.”
“Art thou a dweller in the house of grief?” he asked. “Tell me why thou didst venture here alone.”
She hesitated, toying nervously with the jewelled perfume-bottle suspended at her breast; then she answered, “I—I am betrothed to a man I hate. The Merciful Giver of Blessings alone can rescue me from a fate that is worse than death—a marriage without love.”
“And who is forcing thee into this hateful union? If it is thy father, tell me his name.”