“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?” I inquired, gazing at her in wonderment.
“I came hither for the same purpose as thyself,” she answered seriously, looking straight into my face,—“to crave Allah’s blessing.”
“Art thou a dweller in the house of grief?” I 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?”
“Yes, it is my father. His name is Abd el Jelíl ben Séf e’ Nasr, Sultan of Abea.”
“The Sultan!” I cried in amazement. “Then thou art Kheira!” I added, for the extraordinary beauty of the only daughter of the Sultan of Abea was proverbial throughout the Great Desert, from Lake Tsâd, even to the Atlas.
“Yes,” she replied. “And from thy speech and dress I know thou art of the Azjar, our deadliest enemies.”
“True,” I answered. “To-morrow my tribe, to the number of ten thousand, now lying concealed in the valley called Deforou, will swarm upon thine impregnable city and—”