“No need to fear his knowing of this unless, thyself, thou tell him,” she answered. “To thee I need no excuse if thou’lt but remember that like thyself I was not born a Muslim.”
“But Algiers is not thy native Sicily, and whatever thou wast born it were well to remember what thou art become.”
He went on at length to tell her of the precise degree of her folly, but she cut in, stemming his protestation in full flow.
“These are idle words that but delay me.”
“To thy purpose then, in Allah’s name, that thus thou mayest depart the sooner.”
She came to it straight enough on that uncompromising summons. She pointed to Rosamund. “It concerns that slave,” said she. “I sent my wazeer to the sôk today with orders to purchase her for me.”
“So I had supposed,” he said.
“But it seems that she caught thy fancy, and the fool suffered himself to be outbidden.”
“Well?”
“Thou’lt relinquish her to me at the price she cost thee?” A faint note of anxiety trembled in her voice.
“I am anguished to deny thee, O Fenzileh. She is not for sale.”
“Ah, wait,” she cried. “The price paid was high—many times higher than I have ever heard tell was given for a slave, however lovely. Yet I covet her. ’Tis a whim of mine, and I cannot suffer to be thwarted in my whims. To gratify this one I will pay three thousand philips.”
He looked at her and wondered what devilries might be stirring in her mind, what evil purpose she desired to serve.
“Thou’lt pay three thousand philips?” he said slowly. Then bluntly asked her: “Why?”
“To gratify a whim, to please a fancy.”
“What is the nature of this costly whim?” he insisted.
“The desire to possess her for my own,” she answered evasively.
“And this desire to possess her, whence is it sprung?” he returned, as patient as he was relentless.
“You ask too many questions,” she exclaimed with a flash of anger.
He shrugged and smiled. “You answer too few.”
She set her arms akimbo and faced him squarely. Faintly through her veil he caught the gleam of her eyes, and he cursed the advantage she had in that her face was covered from his reading.
“In a word, Oliver-Reis,” said she, “wilt sell her for three thousand philips?”
“In a word—no,” he answered her.
“Thou’lt not? Not for three thousand philips?” Her voice was charged with surprise, and he wondered was it real or assumed.
“Not for thirty thousand,” answered he. “She is mine, and I’ll not relinquish her. So since I have proclaimed my mind, and since to tarry here is fraught with peril for us both, I beg thee to depart.”
There fell a little pause, and neither of them noticed the alert interest stamped upon the white face of Rosamund. Neither of them suspected her knowledge of French which enabled her to follow most of what was said in the lingua franca they employed.
Fenzileh drew close to him. “Thou’lt not relinquish her, eh?” she asked, and he was sure she sneered. “Be not so confident. Thou’lt be forced to it, my friend—if not to me, why then, to Asad. He is coming for her, himself, in person.”
“Asad?” he cried, startled now.
“Asad-ed-Din,” she answered, and upon that resumed her pleading. “Come, then! It were surely better to make a good bargain with me than a bad one with the Basha.”
He shook his head and planted his feet squarely. “I intend to make no bargain with either of you. This slave is not for sale.”
“Shalt thou dare resist Asad? I tell thee he will take her whether she be for sale or not.”
“I see,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “And the fear of this, then, is the source of thy whim to acquire her for thyself. Thou art not subtle, O Fenzileh. The consciousness that thine own charms are fading sets thee trembling lest so much loveliness should entirely cast thee from thy lord’s regard, eh?”
If he could not see her face, and study there the effect of that thrust of his, at least he observed the quiver that ran through her muffled figure, he caught the note of anger that throbbed in her reply—“And if that were so, what is’t to thee?”
“It may be much or little,” he replied thoughtfully.
“Indeed, it should be much,” she answered quickly, breathlessly. “Have I not ever been thy friend? Have I not ever urged thy valour on my lord’s notice and wrought like a true friend for thine advancement, Sakr-el-Bahr?”
He laughed outright. “Hast thou so?” quoth he.
“Laugh as thou wilt, but it is true,” she insisted. “Lose me and thy most valuable ally is lost—one who has the ear and favour of her lord. For look, Sakr-el-Bahr, it is what would befall if another came to fill my place, another who might poison Asad’s mind with lies against thee—for surely she cannot love thee, this Frankish girl whom thou hast torn from her home!”
“Be not concerned for that,” he answered lightly, his wits striving in vain to plumb the depths and discover the nature of her purpose. “This slave of mine shall never usurp thy place beside Asad.”
“O fool, Asad will take her whether she be for sale or not.”
He looked down upon her, head on one side and arms akimbo. “If he can take her from me, the more easily can he take her from thee. No doubt thou hast considered that, and in some dark Sicilian way considered too how to provide against it. But the cost—hast thou counted that? What will Asad say to thee when he learns how thou hast thwarted him?”
“What do I care for that?” she cried in sudden fury, her gestures becoming a little wild. “She will be at the bottom of the harbour by then with a stone about her neck. He may have me whipped. No doubt he will. But ’twill end there. He will require me to console him for his loss, and so all will be well again.”
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