He looked at her triumphantly, and she eagerly replied:  “Yes, yes indeed; and in our country I think something worth having.”

“And we—­you and I—­we will begin a quite new life.  I was seventeen when I first set out with my master, and I was twenty-six last midsummer.  How many years wandering does that make?”

They both thought this over for some time; then Mandane said doubtfully

“If I am not mistaken it is eight.”

“I believe it is nine,” he exclaimed.  “Let us see.  Here, give me your little paw!  There, I begin with seventeen, that is where I started.  First your little-finger—­what a mite of a thing, and then the rest.”  He took her right hand and counted off her fingers till he ended with the last finger of the left.  The result puzzled him; he shook his head, saying:  “There are ten fingers on both hands, sure enough, and yet it cannot be ten years; it is nine at most I know.”

He began the counting, which he liked uncommonly, all over again; but with the same result.  Mandane said it was but nine, she had counted it up herself; and he agreed, and declared that her little fingers must be bewitched.  And this game would have gone on still longer but that she remembered that the seventeen must not be included at all, and that he ought to begin with eighteen.  Rustem could not immediately take this in, and even when he admitted it he did not release her hand, but went on with gay resolution: 

“And you see, my girl, I mean to keep this little hand—­you may pull it away if you choose—­but it is mine, and the pretty little maid, and all that belongs to it.  And I will take you and both your hands, bewitched fingers and all, home with me.  There they may weave and stitch as much as you like; but as man and wife no one shall part us, and we will lead a life such a life!  The joys of Paradise shall be no better than a rap on the skull with an olive-wood log in comparison!”

He tried to take her hand again, but she drew it away, saying in deep confusion and without looking up:  “No, Rustem.  I was afraid yesterday that it would come to this; but it can never, never be.  I am grateful—­oh! so grateful; but no, it cannot be, and that must be the end of it.  I can never be your wife.  Rustem.”

“No?” he asked with a scowl, and the veins swelled in his low forehead.  “Then you have been making a fool of me!—­as to the gratitude you talk of. . . .”

He stood up in hot excitement; she laid her hand on his arm, drew him down on to the seat again, and ventured to steal an imploring look into his eyes, which never could long flash with anger.  Then she said: 

How you break out!  I shall really and truly be very grieved to part from you; cannot you see that I am fond of you?  But indeed, indeed it will never do, I—­oh! if only I might go back, home, and with you.  Yes, with you, as your wife.  What a proud and happy thought!  And how gladly would I work for us both—­for I am very handy and hard-working, but. . . .”