Part 43 (1/2)
”Away!” was her command; ”or if Iftikhar did not mock me, the next word I have for him is to ask your head!”
Hakem shuffled out of the room like a whipped hound. To the maids Mary gave not a word--simply pointed toward the pa.s.sage. The flash in her eyes sufficed. They were gone; and the Greek found herself alone--oh, bliss!--alone!
The room was large, high-domed; the walls covered with gold and colored enamel in fantastic arabesques. Here and there an inscription from one of the poets in silver mosaic. On the silken carpet the feet moved noiselessly. The light trickled through the piercings in the dome, and spread a restful twilight around. There were divans of priceless Chinese silk, an ebony table whereon lay silver and crystal cups and coolers, fruit and honey cakes. Upon the divan lay ready a dress, silk also, plainly prepared for Iftikhar's new favorite, gold lace, jewel embroidery: in France worth a count's ransom; even in Constantinople worthy of the Empress herself. It was very still. Mary sat upon the divan beside the table and rested her face on her hands.
She was more weary than one may tell. Despite the care of Iftikhar, the journey had been no easy one. And now this was the end! Here was the golden cage in which the bright bird was to be kept fast! Mary shed no tears now. Iftikhar had given her a pledge. She felt sure he would be patient within reason. But in time? Mary knew herself well enough and Iftikhar well enough to be sure that both were made of mortal stuff. After all, she was his slave--to be sold in the market if he chose. She had taken her vows touching Richard Longsword while life lasted. But was he not dead to her? Perhaps dead to all the world? Did men only die to one another when they stopped eating, talking, and sleeping? She could struggle, could put on her majesty, could say ”No” a score of times; but in the end!--what end could there be saving one! So Mary sat in her revery, her thoughts as dark as the ebony table beneath her eyes.
Suddenly, as if awaking from a dream, she heard laughter,--laughter musical as a little stream, but with a mocking, angry tinge that left a sting. Mary lifted her eyes, raised her head. More laughter--louder, still musical. The Greek almost started. Could she not even have sorrow in peace?
”Have I not bidden you all begone?” was her cry, and at last the tears were not far from her eyes; for this defiance was the last drop to her cup of sorrow.
”No,” came back a voice, clear and melodious as a zithern note; ”no, you have commanded me nothing.”
”Then now I say 'away'--leave me alone!”
”How sweet to see you angry! I will not leave you. See! I enter. I wish to look at you face to face.”
The curtains at the farther end of the room opened. As they did so a score of little bells upon them tinkled, and Mary saw a woman standing in the mild half-light. Instantly the Greek rose, and the two looked into each other's eyes.
Morgiana was dressed in a manner only possible to one who felt the vulgar eye far removed. She wore loose green silk trousers that gathered a little below the knee; her feet were hid only by white slippers, where the gem-stones were flas.h.i.+ng, and white silken stockings; arms and neck were bare; a gauzy Indian shawl, white also, was wrapped about her; on her girdle shone the gold chain work, another gold chain around her neck; the abundant black hair streamed loosely over the shoulders from under a jewel-set fillet. The two women stood facing one another for a long moment. Then each broke forth in one breath, but the Arab first.
”How beautiful you are!--I hate you!”
”How beautiful!--I wish to love you!”
The two sentences blended into one; and instantly Morgiana burst again into laughter.
”So this is the Star of the Greeks! I give you joy; you are worthy of Iftikhar Eddauleh! _Ya_; were you a peri of the deep, you could not be fairer!”
Mary bowed her head. ”Lady,” was her answer, ”who you are I know not; but this I know, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and if Iftikhar possesses you, G.o.d alone knows why he casts eyes on me!”
Yet again Morgiana laughed. ”G.o.d alone knows?” was her cry; ”verily, I doubt it. Were He knowing, and yet able to change the world, wicked He must be to suffer the deeds of men! You think me a stranger. Well, Morgiana the slave of Iftikhar greets Mary the slave of Iftikhar, and Morgiana adds that she will kill Mary, as surely as the evening follows the morn!”
”Pray G.o.d that you may have your wish full soon!” answered the Greek, looking down. Her words seemed to have touched a new spring in Morgiana. The Arab threw her hands on high.
”Cursed are you, O Greek! Cursed your beauty! Cursed all who look in love upon you! Let the jinns of the abyss swallow you! Let Eblees, Lord of Darkness, have mastery of you! May your bright eyes be turned to blindness, your white skin scorch, your smooth arms wither--” But here Mary interrupted, humble no longer now, her own proud fire flas.h.i.+ng in turn.
”Silence--madwoman! It is you the evil powers will curse! Do I need maledictions from you to make my lot less darksome, my cup less bitter? Curse Iftikhar Eddauleh, if you will, whose sin and pa.s.sion blast your joy and mine! Curse him, not me!” And at this Morgiana broke forth fiercely:--
”No, no, not Iftikhar Eddauleh! Were he tearing me with tortures, yet would I bless him. Were he foul as the rebel angels, his kiss were honey. Dwelt he in parching Gehennah, to be with him--paradise! No word against him, or here and now I slay you!”
Mary made no immediate answer. Morgiana's face was aflame with pa.s.sion; as she spoke she swayed in half frenzy. Under her breath the Greek murmured, ”She is mad!”
”As Allah lives!” cried Morgiana, her mood veering swift as the flight of birds, ”I have frightened you! Unjust, cruel, my heart is half ice and half fire. I have given you arrows instead of tears. You are blameless, wretched, helpless,--what may I do for you?”
And she had caught Mary's hands within her own, and was drawing her close and kissing her forehead.
”They do well to call you star and flower of the Greeks! _Mashallah!_ how could Iftikhar and all the world fail to give all to gain you!
From Cairo to Samarkand there is none like you!”
Mary did not answer. To her Morgiana was fury, houri, and angel all in one moment. She knew not what to think, and so kept peace. But the Arab ran on: ”I saw you at Palermo. It came to my ears that you were very beautiful. I saw you ride to church once with your father. I, of course, was veiled and guarded by Hakem; and when my eyes lit on you, I said, 'She is not over-praised.' Yet there was a throng, and you were not near. But now, face to face, I say, 'Not all the poets from Imr ul-Kais to An-Nami could paint in verse your beauty; no, nor all the angels who sing about the throne of Allah!'”