He knew my mother, at least by
memory. My mother, beautiful Astarte, was an Ansarey.'
'Your mother was an Ansarey!' repeated Astarte, in a tone of infinite
surprise; 'your mother an Ansarey? Of what family was she a child?'
'Ah!' replied Fakredeen, 'there it is; that is the secret sorrow of
my life. A mystery hangs over my mother, for I lost both my parents in
extreme childhood; I was at her heart,' he added, in a broken voice,
'and amid outrage, tumult, and war. Of whom was my mother the child? I am
here to discover that, if possible. Her race and her beautiful religion
have been the dream of my life. All I have prayed for has been to
recognise her kindred and to behold her gods.'
'It is very interesting,' murmured the Queen.
'It is more than interesting,' sighed Fakredeen. 'Ah! beautiful Astarte!
if you knew all, if you could form even the most remote idea of what I
have suffered for this unknown faith;' and a passionate tear quivered on
the radiant cheek of the young prince.
'And yet you came here to preach the doctrines of another,' said
Astarte.
'I came here to preach the doctrines of another!' replied Fakredeen,
with an expression of contempt; his nostril dilated, his lip curled with
scorn. 'This mad Englishman came here to preach the doctrines of another
creed, and one with which it seems to me, he has as little connection
as his frigid soil has with palm trees.
Pages:
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635