Death
for herself and Murad was the best she could expect. Ahmed's own
honour, the traditions of all his house, his great position would
make it impossible for him to let her pass from his, a Turk's harem
to a Druze lover. The thought whirled from her sick brain, leaving
all confused and hopeless as before, and her tears rained fast.
Ahmed smoothed her soft hair and kissed her forehead gently, as it
lay against his breast.
"Go and fetch your music, and sing to me," he whispered, as her
sobs ceased. "See how lovely the spring time is; it is no time for
tears, but for songs and--love." He murmured the last word very
softly and set her free. Without looking at him she slipped away to
the door in obedience to his command, and in a wild confusion of
feeling in which pleasure struggled with fear.
When she came back with her instrument, a small pear shaped guitar
in appearance, she was more composed. Her eyes were still red and
swollen, but the soft, elastic skin had already regained its
colouring. As she entered, soft bars of sunlight were falling
through the room, the window had been opened, and the song of the
birds came gaily through it. Ahmed had ordered coffee and
sweetmeats to be brought, and these now stood on a small inlaid
table before her, on whose glistening arabesques of mother of pearl
the sunbeams twinkled merrily.
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