'But what is it on me!' exclaimed Fakredeen, distractedly. 'A stain! I
shall be branded like Cain. No, I will never enter Damascus again, or
any of the cities of the coast. I will give up all my castles to my
cousin Francis El Kazin, on condition that he does not pay my creditors.
I will retire to Mar Hanna. I will look upon man no more.'
'Be calm, my Fakredeen; there is yet hope; my responsibility at this
moment is surely not lighter than yours.'
'Ah! you did not know him, Eva!' exclaimed Fakredeen, passionately; 'you
never listened to him! He cannot be to you what he is to me. I loved
him!'
She pressed her finger to her lips, for they had arrived at the tent of
Tancred. The young Emir, drying his streaming eyes, entered first, and
then came back and ushered in Eva. They stood together by the couch of
Tancred. The expression of distress, of suffering, of extreme tension,
which had not marred, but which, at least, had mingled with the
spiritual character of his countenance the previous day, had
disappeared. If it were death, it was at least beautiful. Softness and
repose suffused his features, and his brow looked as if it had been the
temple of an immortal spirit.
Eva gazed upon the form with a fond, deep melancholy; Fakredeen and
Baroni exchanged glances.
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