"I am only going to prepare your breakfast."
He did as she had requested, and retired to the second apartment of
the tent, to patiently await Butheita's return. There he sat
absorbed in thought, seemingly forgetful that he was the sarechsme,
Mohammed Ali, and a captive, for a happy smile rested on his lips.
His thoughts were beyond the sea, in the distant Cavalla. Whom did
he see there? It seems to him that Masa, stands before him with her
large soft eyes, and sweet smile; and Masa's image is strangely
interwoven with that of the Bedouin-child, Butheita. The two fair
forms were blended, and it did not displease him. Yet another face
is there. It regards him with a grave yet kindly expression. It is
not the face of a young girl; sweet and youthful fresh ness and love
are not in its features, and yet it is a loved face, that of his
wife Ada, the mother of his children. No, he has not forgotten her!
How could it be possible after living side by side in peace and
harmony for almost ten years! How could it be possible to forget her
who had given him three loved lives? Ah, his beloved boys, how his
heart yearns after them! Yet his heart yearns for her too, for his
wife.
For almost ten years this quiet-loving woman has sat by his side,
and he will never put her away from him, never for get her, the
mother of his children. Years pass rapidly, but a man's heart does
not grow old.
Pages:
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489