t, it seemed inevitable and ordinary:
even now it hardly seems wonderful. But this is waste of time. I must
try to hurry the crisis.... Let me see, where did I stop?... Ah! I
remember now....

"Well, I lived two years a prisoner, and time dulled my pain. Escape was
hopeless, and I tried to be as cheerful as I could. No news reached me
of the outer world--I did not even know whether my father and sister
were alive. That was hard, but I, too, learned hardness from experience.

"One morning Lukos came to my room as usual, but not in his usual
spirits. I rallied him on his dulness (oh! we were good friends, in
spite of the anomalous position; that is really the least surprising
feature of the story!), but he did not respond. When at last he walked
toward the window and had stood, gloomily at gaze, for several minutes,
I felt alarmed. He had never been in such a mood before. 'Lukos,' I said
gently, 'what is the matter?'

"In a moment he was at my feet, pouring forth a torrent of words. 'Heart
of my heart!' he cried in tones that would have racked a devil; 'can you
ask! You know that I love you, for my eyes and soul have spoken. I
bought you as merchandise, with little care; I have learned to love you
as a woman should be loved, with all the strength of my being, the
force of my spirit, the frenzy of a madman that rejoices in his madness!
For you I would do anything--I would tear the sultan from his throne--I
would seize every mosque in the empire to found a new religion, the
worship of yourself! I am your master, and yet the meanest of your
slaves! You can stir me with a quiver of your eyelashes--'

"'Yet you will not set me free,' I said, pitying, but justly
reproachful.

"'No,' he groaned. 'I love you so much that I will not climb the heights
of renunciation. I love you enough to respect your defenselessness, but
I _can not_ let you go to be, perhaps, another's. Oh, lady of my soul,
can you not be merciful? Can you not unbend from your divinity and love
me? Star of the West, can you not illumine an eastern desert, for I love
you--I love you!'"

"Mountebank!" said Lionel with a fine contempt. He disliked Lukos.

"He had a poetic nature," pouted the lady. "Besides, we Occidentals,
colder in spirit, less imaginative, must make allowances for exotic
passion. I confess that his words moved me. But I took his hand and
said, 'It is impossible, my friend.'"

"Ah!" said Lionel, taking fresh courage and a cigarette.

"My