“No,” I replied. “How can I ever forget thee?”
Her white breast rose and fell in a deep-drawn sigh.
“Already Allah, the Most Merciful, hath directed thy footsteps and vouchsafed me the felicity of conversing with thee. Thou hast kept thy promise unto me, O Cecil, for when the homards would follow us, thou didst not betray our whereabouts. Therefore I trust thee.”
“I assure thee that any confidence thou placest in me shall never be abused,” I replied. “Yet,” I added, “thou dost not place in me that perfect trust that I have.”
“Why?” she asked, in quick surprise.
“Still hidden from my gaze is that countenance I am longing to look upon.”
“Wouldst thou have me cast aside my religion? I am a woman; remember what is written,” she exclaimed, half reproachfully.
“The adoration of the Christian is none the less passionate than the love of the True Believer,” I said. “A woman is not defiled by the gaze of the man she loveth. But,” I added thoughtfully, “perhaps, after all, thou hast no thought of me, and my fond belief that in thy breast burneth the fire of love is only a vain delusion.”
“Thou—thou thinkest I can care nothing for thee—a Roumi? Why?” she cried, starting up.
“Because of thy refusal to unveil.”