“Kill thee! Why?”
“Because thou art a soldier of the great Khalifa of Omdurman, enemy of my people, and Ruler of the Soudan.”
“What name bearest thou?” I asked.
“I am called Azala Fathma.”
“Daughter of whom?”
“Daughter of ’Othman, Sultan of Sokoto.”
“Thou—Princess of Sokoto!” I gasped, struggling slowly and with difficulty to my feet, scarcely believing my ears. “Where, then, have I taken mine ease?”
“For three days past hast thou been concealed here, in the harem of thine enemy,” she answered, in low, placid tones, looking seriously at me. Then, noticing the uneasy glance I cast in the direction of the dark alcove beyond, she added quickly, “Let not apprehension fall upon thee. To this my apartment none dares enter unbidden, therefore thou art safe, even in the midst of those whom thou didst seek to destroy.”
“Chastise me not with a scourge of words, O Daughter of the Sultan,” I said, apologetically. “Thy servant Zafar-Ben-A’Ziz, Arab of the Chawi, horseman of the Khalifa, armeth not himself against those who give him succour, nor seeketh he the overthrow of the city of thy father.”
Leaning gracefully, with her back against the twisted column of polished marble, inlaid with gold, supporting the arched roof, she clasped her hands behind her handsome head and gazed at me. Then, half reproachfully she said,—