“Thou art a Roumi, while I—I am a dweller in the mansion of grief.”
“But all things are possible,” I said. “If thou art afraid of thy people, trust in me. Meet me clandestinely, attired in European garments, and we will leave by the steamer for Marseilles, where we can marry.”
I uttered these passionate words scarce knowing what thoughts I expressed. As soon as they had left my mouth I was filled with regret.
“No. Ask me not,” she replied, firmly. “Already, by bringing thee hither, by unveiling before thee, and by suffering thee to kiss me, I have invoked the Wrath. The curse is already upon me, and—and, alas! I shall pay the penalty soon enough,” she added, with a touch of gloomy sadness.
“What dost thou mean?” I asked, gazing into her beautiful, entrancing face.
“It meaneth that I, Zoraida Fathma, am consumed by that sorrow and despair that is precursory of death; that Eblis hath set his fatal seal upon me—that I am doomed!”
Her lustrous eyes, with their arched and darkened brows, looked into mine with an expression of intensity and desperation, and she glanced furtively, as if in fear, into the distant corner of the room, where the light from the great lamp of beaten brass did not penetrate.
“Thine enigmas are puzzling,” I said. “What evil canst thou fear?”
A shudder ran through her slim frame. Then she clutched my hand and tightly held it.
“I cannot—I—It is forbidden that I should love thee, O Cecil,” she said, sighing and setting her teeth firmly.