I
am in my summer, as thou, lady, art in thine early spring. And I vow
that thou shalt never regret confiding thy hand to my hand, thy trust to
my loyalty."
As he spoke, he released her fingers gently, and turning, went out of
the room without another word or glance.
When he had gone, Victoria stood still, looking at the door which Si
Maieddine had shut noiselessly.
If she had not lived during all the years since Saidee's last letter, in
the hope of some such moment as this, she would have felt that she had
come into a world of romance, as she listened to the man of the East,
speaking the language of the East. But she had read too many Arabic
tales and poems to find his speech strange. At school, her studies of
her sister's adopted tongue had been confined to dry lesson-books, but
when she had been free to choose her own literature, in New York and
London, she had read more widely. People whom she had told of her
sister's marriage, and her own mission, had sent her several rare
volumes,--among others a valuable old copy of the Koran, and she had
devoured them all, delighting in the facility which grew with practice.
Now, it seemed quite simple to be talking with Sidi Maieddine ben el
Hadj Messaoud as she had talked. It was no more romantic or strange
than all of life was romantic and strange. Rather did she feel that at
last she was face to face with reality.
"He _does_ know something about Cassim," she said, half aloud, and
searching her instinct, she still thought that she could trust him to
keep faith with her.
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