What a woman!

Orion’s gaze was fixed on her in horror—­but in enchantment.  Yes, his mother had judged her rightly.  No gentle, tender-hearted woman laughed like that; but she was grand, splendid, wonderful in her wrath.  She reminded him of the picture of the goddess of vengeance, by Apelles, which he had seen in Constantinople.  His mother shrugged her shoulders and cast a meaning glance at the widow, and even his father was startled at the sight.  He knew what had roused her; still he felt that he could not permit this, and he recalled the excited girl to her senses by speaking her name, half-reproachfully and half-regretfully, at first quite gently but then louder and more severely.

She started like a sleep-walker suddenly awaked from her trance, passed her hand over her eyes, and said, as she bowed her head before the governor: 

“Forgive me, Uncle, I am sorry for what has occurred—­but it was too much for me.  You know what my past has been, and when I am reminded—­when I must listen to the praises even of the wretches to whom my father and brother....”

A loud sob interrupted her; little Mary was clinging to her and weeping.  Orion could hardly keep himself from hastening to her and clasping her in his arms.  Ah, how well her woman’s weakness became the noble girl!  How strongly it drew him to her!

But Paula soon recovered from it; even while the governor was soothing her with kind words she mastered her violent agitation, and said gently, though her tears still quietly flowed:  “Let me go to my room, I beg....”

“Good-night, then, child,” said the Mukaukas affectionately, and Paula turned towards the door with a silent greeting to the rest of the party; but the Moslem detained her and said: 

“I know who you are, noble daughter of Thomas, and I have heard that your brother was the bridegroom who had come to Abyla to solemnize his marriage with the daughter of the prefect of Tripolis.  Alas, alas!  I myself was there with my merchandise at the fair, when a maddened horde of my fellow-believers fell upon the peaceful town.  Poor child, poor child!  Your father was the greatest and most redoubtable of our foes.  Whether still on earth or in heaven he yet, no doubt honors our sword as we honor his.  But your brother, whom we sent to his grave as a bridegroom—­he cursed us with his dying breath.  You have inherited his rancor; and when it surges up against me, a Moslem, I can do no more than bow my head and do penance for the guilt of those whose blood runs in my veins and whose faith I confess.  I have nothing to plead—­no, noble maiden, nothing that can excuse the deed of Abyla.  There—­there alone it was the fate of my grey hairs to be ashamed of my fellow-Moslems—­believe me, maiden, it was grievous to me.  War, and the memory of many friends slain and of wealth lightly plundered had unchained men’s passion; and where passion’s pinions wave, whether in the struggle for mine and thine or for other possessions, ever since the days of Cain and Abel, it is always and everywhere the same.”