Chunda Lal glanced apprehensively toward the door. Then:
"Do not go with him!" he said, and sought to draw Miska into his arms.
"O, light of my eyes, do not go with him!"
Miska repulsed him, but not harshly.
"No, no, it is no good, Chunda Lal. I cannot hear you."
"You think"--the Hindu's voice was hoarse with emotion--"that _he_ will
trace you--and kill you?"
_"Trace me!"_ exclaimed Miska with sudden scorn. "Is it necessary for
him to trace me? Am I not already dead except for _him!_ Would I be
his servant, his lure, his slave for one little hour, for one short
minute, if my life was my own!"
Beads of perspiration gleamed upon the brown forehead of the Hindu,
and his eyes turned from the door to the eastern wall and back again
to Miska. He was torn by conflicting desires, but suddenly came
resolution.
"Listen, then." His voice was barely audible. "If I tell you that your
life _is_ your own--if I reveal to you a secret which I learned in the
house of Abdul Rozan in Cairo----"
Miska watched him with eyes in which a new, a wild expression was
dawning.
"If I tell you that life and not death awaits you, will you come away
to-night, and we sail for India to-morrow! Ah! I have money! Perhaps I
am rich as well as--someone; perhaps I can buy you the robes of a
princess"--he drew her swiftly to him--"and cover those white arms
with jewels."
Miska shrank from him.
"All this means nothing," she said. "How can the secret of Abdul
Rozan help me to live! And you--you will be dead before I die!--yes!
One little hour after _he_ finds out that I go!"
"Listen again," hissed Chunda Lal intensely.
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