United States or Jamaica ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Once outside, her lean black legs carried her swiftly back to Dilama's room, where she pushed aside the curtain without ceremony. "Come!" she said imperiously, "you are Ahmed Ali's chosen one; he has sent for you. Put off that torn veil, and all that weeping. I have new robes here for you."
Dilama, who had hurriedly gathered herself up at the slave's entry, shrank away now into a corner of the room, white as death. "Has he sent for me?" she asked breathlessly. "Commanded me? Oh, must I go?" The slave looked at her strangely. She had no suspicion of Dilama's secret, and had no idea that her own misrepresentations were as gross as they were.
She could both sing and play well, for Ahmed loved music, and wisely considered it a safe amusement an outlet for superfluous passions and unexpressed feelings for the women of the harem. Instruments were provided in plenty, and instruction and all encouragement given to them to learn, and from her first day in the harem Dilama's natural voice and talents had been noted and fostered.
But she had no wish to be harsh or unkind to this girl, who would be in a few hours queen of the harem. She was puzzled. She drew near to Dilama's shrinking form, and peered into her face. "Yes, he commands," she said; "but is it possible you do not wish to go to Ahmed? He is a king amongst men, and he loves you. What better fate could there be than to lie on his breast, in his arms?
He had a keen prescience that the death of the favourite of the harem might influence very quickly Dilama's fate. "Why not take me now, Murad? I want to see the mountains," and she laid her little head, crowned by its masses of brown-gold hair, on his warm breast. "The caravan does not start for two weeks more," he answered thoughtfully. "We must wait for it.
Word Of The Day