After a time, in which we sat silent, I said to
Madras: "But suppose she should be frightened?--should--should make a
scene?"
He raised himself to a sitting posture. "I feel better," he said. Then,
answering my question: "You do not know her quite. She will not stir a
muscle. She has nerve. I have seen her in positions of great peril and
trial. She is not emotional, though I truly think she will wake one day
and find her heart all fire but not for me. Still, I say that all will be
quite comfortable, so far as any demonstration on her part is concerned.
She will not be melodramatic, I do assure you."
"And the disguise--your dress?" inquired I.
He rose from the berth slowly, and, opening a portmanteau, drew from it a
cloth of white and red, fringed with gold. It was of beautiful texture,
and made into the form of a toga or mantle. He said: "I was a seller of
such stuffs in Colombo, and these I brought with me, because I could not
dispose of them without sacrifice when I left hurriedly. I have made them
into a mantle. I could go as--a noble Roman, perhaps!" Then a slight,
ironical smile crossed his lips, and he stretched out his thin but
shapely arms, as if in derision of himself.
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