She raised her head as if to listen for the voice that would never come.
"O Iftikhar, soul of my soul, light of my eyes, joy of my joy! have you not one word for me,—for me who have clung fast to you these many years through all? Speak, though it be but to curse me! Speak, though it be of love for the Greek! You will not, cannot, go out now and leave me here alone,—alone, alone!"
No answer. Mary heard her own heart-beats, the crooning of the wind in the streets, the deep breaths of Musa.
Suddenly Morgiana let the limp head fall, and leaped to her feet, blood-stains on dress and hands and face.
"Dead!" she cried; "dead!" casting toward Mary a look so terrible that the Greek drew back. "Dead! Gone forever! Forever, forever!" And Morgiana's voice died away as if far off into the coming ages. Then once more she fell upon the dead form, kissed the speechless lips, and cooed into the deaf ear, saying sweet and pleasant things as in the lovers' days of long ago. But all the soft words ended in a cry of agony. Again she rose and faced Musa and the Greek.
"In Allah's name be you cursed! You for your strength, and you for your beauty! For the beauty that stole Iftikhar from me,—that led him to ruin, to death,—cursed, ten thousand times! May the jinns of evil crush you! May all Gehenna's fires wither you! May the Most High forget you from His mercy—" Mary was sobbing now:—
"Sweet sister, pity me," was her plea. "What have I done? Forget the Egyptian. How has he paid back your great love for him? He was unworthy of such love." But Morgiana only tossed her blood-stained arms on high.
"Fool, fool; am I not a woman? Did I love him by my reason? Worthy or unworthy, I have loved him. Enough!"
She tore at her bosom; drew forth a tiny silver vial. It was at her lips before Musa could seize it.
"Poison!" shouted he.