above his head, he ducked, sat down quickly on the ground, kowtowed, and remarked, without the slightest taint of shame or self-consciousness:
“It appears that I am vanquished. I am thy slave, Al Nakia—and thine, Aziza Nurmahal!”
With which he groped in his waist shawl, drew out a match and a sadly crumpled cigarette, lit it, and remarked, to nobody in particular, that even to the noblest of men kismet was always kismet, and that all came from Allah, the good as well as the evil.
“Thus—let us not cavil at the evil! It would be blasphemy unspeakable!”
Hector dropped the point of his sword. He laughed, frankly, loudly. He could not help himself. The governor's effrontery was too colossal.
Then, again, as he looked at the princess, as he saw the delicate splendor of her face, the warm golden tint of her skin, the magnificent curve of breast and hip for all her slimness, the long, narrow, pleasurable hands, and the huge eyes which shone like star-sapphires; as he saw her firm, red lips, those lips that held the eternal invitation of all womankind; together with a curious, rather impersonal kind of jealousy, since he did not love her, a great rage rose in his throat that the other should have thought of making her his.
And again he raised his sword, to the little princess' encouraging shouts of “Kill him, Al Nakia! Kill him!” while Abderrahman Yahiah Khan sighed resignedly, rather pathetically, with an expression in his eyes, his lips, the drooping of his shoulders which
