Part 43 (2/2)
”Praise it not,” cried Mary, finding her tongue; ”it is, as you say, cursed,--cursed for me, at least; please G.o.d, not for those who have loved me! I say naught of Iftikhar; let G.o.d judge him, not I!”
Morgiana bowed her head in turn.
”You say well. Let the Most High judge Iftikhar. And now”--raising her eyes--”tell me; shall we be friends?”
Then and there the two kissed one another, cried on each other's necks, and swore--so far as spirits like theirs may--to be friends and sisters. For the burden of each was great. When they had ceased crying and could talk once more, Morgiana led Mary to the divan, exclaiming:--
”_Wallah!_ But you are all travel-stained and weary. Where are Hakem and the maids?”
”As you love me,” protested the Greek, ”do not call them. I will not see that sleek eunuch's face again. I sent them all away.”
”Hakem!” repeated Morgiana, with a sniff; ”he is a harmless lizard, after you grow accustomed to seeing him trail his nose around. His teeth look very sharp, but they must not frighten you. Nevertheless, if you will not--” Mary shook her head.
”Then I will play the tiring maid!” cried the Arab; and she laughed when she drew the pins from Mary's hair, and let it fall over her shoulders, a s.h.i.+ning, brown ma.s.s.
”_Wallah!_ How beautiful you are!” Morgiana repeated again and again.
She led Mary into a bath, where the air was heavy with perfumes of saffron and date-blossoms, then put on the Greek the Eastern dress which had been made ready. Mary's heart was very full when Morgiana laid aside the Frankish bleaunt; for in that mantle she had ridden beside Richard Longsword over the weary road to Constantinople; he had given it to her on their wedding day. But when the Arab wished to draw the little silver ring from her finger, the Greek shook her head.
”Silly!” commented Morgiana, ”it is not worth a dirhem; I will bring you a casket of a hundred--ruby, onyx, beryl--”
”My husband set it there,” replied Mary, thrusting back her hair and looking full into the Arab's face. ”It was to remain there till I die.” Morgiana tossed up her head. ”Your husband? Richard Longsword, that boorish Frank, who has a bull's strength with a baboon's wits?
How dare you love him, when you may have the love of Iftikhar Eddauleh!”
”Nevertheless,” said Mary, very slowly, never moving her gaze, ”Richard is my husband. I love him. Do not speak ill of him, or our friends.h.i.+p dies the day of birth.”
”I have a very cruel heart!” cried Morgiana, kissing the Greek again; and the ring was left in its place.
They had completed the toilet. There was a long silvered mirror in the room, and Mary saw herself dressed after the fas.h.i.+on of the East, from the mother-of-pearl set upon her yellow shoes, to the gold-spangled muslin that wound above her flowing hair. ”Holy Mother of Pity,” she whispered, looking down at the little ring, ”but for this, I were already become an infidel!”
The next moment the voice of Iftikhar demanded entrance, and the two women stood before him.
”_Bismillah!_” he exclaimed, smiling, and looking more handsome and lordly than ever, ”I see two of the houris! You are friends?”
”We are sisters,” replied Morgiana, a little defiantly. ”I fled out upon the lake that I might not meet you when you returned,--but now!”
and she took Mary by the hand.
”I will wait on you no more to-day,” said Iftikhar, bowing in most stately fas.h.i.+on. But when he had gone, Morgiana gave a bitter cry:--
”Allah pity me; Allah pity you also! His words were for us both, but his eyes on you alone! I have lost him, lost him forever. The Most High keep me from some fearful deed!”
”I do not dread you,” said Mary, gently.
”No,” came the answer, ”you need dread nothing. Christian you are, and Moslem I; but one G.o.d hears us both. Oh, let us pray,--pray for His mercy; for lesser help may not avail!”
Mary slept that night in the same chamber as Morgiana, an airy, high-vaulted room, in an upper story of the palace. Through the tracery of the lattice came the warm breeze, bearing the narcotic scent of those tropic gardens. But Mary was long in falling asleep on her soft pallet. In the darkness she heard the trumpet-voiced muezzins in the distant Aleppo, calling the midnight _Oola: ”Allahu akhbar!_ _Allahu akhbar! Allahu akhbar!_ I testify there is no G.o.d but Allah, and Mohammed is the prophet of Allah! Come to prayer! Come to prayer!
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