"Dear sister, I, like you, am the slave of Iftikhar Eddauleh—at his mercy, his toy, his sport for an idle hour—but never fear that I will love him. Till I know Richard Longsword sleeps with the dead—"
Morgiana lifted her face angrily. "Why speak of Richard Longsword? Who dares compare him to Iftikhar Eddauleh? Is he not a boorish Frank? And Iftikhar?—were it not there is but one Allah, would I not call Iftikhar a god!"
"You worship him; yet you are his slave?"
"Yes! what shame? Do I wish to be free? Are not all mortals slaves of Allah? And is not Iftikhar to me in the place of Allah? Let men bow down to a God; but what God may a woman own save a strong man, whose love is her all—her all!"
The words of Morgiana sank to a sob. She flung her face in Mary's lap and wept.
"Oh," she cried, "I see well enough how it is with you. I have eyes, and wits. On the first days you were here you loathed Iftikhar as if he were a snake. But he knows his game. He has drawn his net about you. Each day you note his dark Eastern splendor, so unlike the West; his speech like music, his professions of love; and each day you say, 'I hate him.' But you do not say it with the sting of months ago. Richard Longsword is becoming very dim before your eyes; Iftikhar Eddauleh, very real. The change is slow; yet I am not wrong. By Allah, I am not wrong! For I see two fires in your cheek, another on your forehead. You do not shudder, as you once did, at thinking, 'All my life I must spend in a golden prison like El Halebah.' It will be very pleasant. Iftikhar is to become the lord of all Islam, if naught fails. The Ismaelians will overthrow Sultan and Kalif, and Iftikhar is declared heir of Hassan-Sabah. So much I know, though we hear so little. And you will reign with him—Sultana! Empress!"
"As you love me, speak no more!" Mary found voice to beg.
"Love you!" cried Morgiana, in her mood; "do I not hate you with fury passing death? Last night, when Iftikhar spoke to you soft and low, I could see your eye following his as a weaver's the shuttle. You are yielding, yielding; soon—"
But Mary had clapped her hand upon the Arab's mouth. "Love me or hate me, do not torture! What can I do?" was her plea. "Day and night I call to Our Lady, 'Save me, or let me die.' And I am growing weak, weak! I cannot fight the will of Heaven much longer. How easy to defy Iftikhar the day he bore me hither! How easy to feel my will each day growing more helpless to resist! God is angry with me; some sin that I have forgotten, yet that must be very great. Oh, pity me, for I am only a weak girl!"
So they comforted one another, those two, whose hearts were too full for words. While they yet sat side by side, Iftikhar came upon the balcony. Splendid he was, in his jewelled turban, golden belt, and dress of izar—the gold-embroidered cloth of Mosul. He made a profound reverence to Mary, then spoke.