He must
never see her. Though he loved her a thousand times, yet would
she never take him from Doolga. Doolga, bright, graceful, and
beautiful, the light of her eyes, the joy of the tent! could she
bear to see her brought through the door cold, motionless,
lifeless, killed by the embrace of the Nile?
When Doolga returned with the flush of warmth on her cheek and the
jar full of shimmering water on her shoulder, Silka was sitting
upright on the bed with dry, wide eyes. One glance at her told
Doolga that she herself was free, that the other would take up her
burden and bear it for her. She crossed over with a quick beautiful
movement, lithe, free, untamed.
"Darling Silka, you will consent? you will promise?"
"Do you meet him often in the palm-grove?" returned Silka; it was
now her eyes that were full of flame as she met her sister's.
"Why--Melun? Yes, whenever it was possible. To-night there will be
no moon; I was going, but why should you ask?" She bent forward
quickly, eagerly, some faint suspicion stirring in her.
"If I do this for you--if I save you--if I show myself to the
Sheik, then you must let me go to the palm-grove to-night."
Doolga fell back from her, surprise and terror and horror mingling
in her face. She clasped her small, soft hands together and wrung
them.
"Oh, Silka! you know, if he sees you, he will not look at me again;
he will not care.
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