Oh,
you are surpassingly beautiful, and it seems to me the prophet has
graciously sent me one of his houris from Paradise."
"I entreat you, sir, let go my veil," said she, in dismay, while two
great tears trickled through her long black eyelashes and rolled
down her cheeks.
"These are pearls, more beautiful pearls, Masa, than are contained
in yonder casket," whispered the pacha. "They will be genuine pearls
if you let me kiss them from your cheeks."
She stepped back proudly, tore the veil from his hand, and drew it
down over her face again. "I have given no one the right to insult
me, and you insult me!"
"How musical this sounds! How sweet three words of indignant
innocence!"
At this moment Mohammed's voice, in loud, angry tones, was heard in
the adjoining room. The pacha smiled, and motioned with his head in
that direction.
"You have seen Mohammed Ali, and you now hear him; he is a
desperado, and will kill your father!"
"Yes," she murmured to herself, "he will now be pitiless, he will
now kill him."
"But I," said the pacha, in gentle tones, "I have pity, and I will
save your father."
"You will save him?" she said, tremblingly.
"I will," said he. "But hear me, Masa, charming crimson rose, hear
me."
"I am listening," said she, sobbing.
He did not heed this, but stepped nearer, and bent down over her.
"Masa, your jewelry I will not take, I want no such recompense; you
shall even have money, all you may desire, if I can purchase you
with it.
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