I was silent. Her argument seemed utterly unassailable. Never before had I faced the situation until now. She had, indeed, spoken the truth.
“But we love each other!” I cried, dolefully.
“Yes,” she sighed, shaking her head. “I confess that I love thee,” and her fingers again gripped my hand. “But it is the very fact that we love one another that should cause us to part and forget.”
“Why? Until the war is ended thou must, of necessity, remain in our camp,” I observed.
“And after?”
“Then we could return to Algiers, or to Oran, and marry.”
She remained silent for a few moments, nervously toying with the single ring of emeralds upon her finger.
“No,” she answered at length. “This love between us is but a passing fancy. When the war is at an end, thou wilt have become convinced of the truth of my words.”
“Never,” I answered. “I love thee now; I shall love thee always.”
“Alas!” she said, laying her hand softly upon my shoulder, and looking earnestly into my face. “Now that we have both made confession we must endeavour to forget. We love each other, but the wide difference in our races renders happiness impossible. Thou wilt find for wife some good woman of thine own people, and I—perhaps I shall find some man of mine own nationality to become my husband. From to-night, Ahamadou, if thou lovest me, thou wilt make no further sign.”