"Yes, Mohammed Ali, I hate you, and you shall never kiss me, for I
hate the robber who takes me from my father's house in order to make
me a slave!"
"Butheita," says he, gently, "I removed the cloth from your lips,
but you are not keeping your word; you tear my heart with your lips,
and I must cover them again if you continue to wound me so cruelly."
"Do so; close my lips! They shall say nothing else to you!" cries
she, angrily. "Do so, close my lips and eyes again!"
"Well, then, I shall do so," he says, taking the gold-embroidered
cloth and throwing it over her face. "I do so, Butheita, because I
am not willing the rude wind should kiss the cheek of my beloved;
unwilling the stars should gaze down on you in your loveliness,
unwilling the moon should adorn your countenance with its lustre. I,
alone, will adorn you; I, alone, will gaze on your loveliness; and
my sighs, alone, shall kiss your cheeks! Yes, Butheita, you belong
to me alone, and shall be my slave, as I am your slave, and yet your
master. Shake your head if you will. I am your master, for you love
me. You shake your head again? You mean to say you hate me! I don't
believe it.--Onward, my dromedary, speed through the desert! Onward,
my Alpha!"
The dromedary moves on still more rapidly over the desert; its
shadow dances beside them on the sand, and behind them the shadow of
the Nubian's steed.
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