The eye of the young Emir glittered with triumph as he listened to the
oily sentences of the eunuch. 'Lebanon,' he whispered, 'is the key of
Syria, my Keferinis, never forget that; and we will lock up the land.
Let us never sleep till this affair is achieved. You think she does not
dream of a certain person, eh? I tell you, he must go, or we must get
rid of him: I fear him not, but he is in the way; and the way should
be smooth as the waters of El Arish. Remember the temple to the Syrian
goddess at Deir el Kamar, my Keferinis! The religion is half the battle.
How I shall delight to get rid of my bishops and those accursed monks:
drones, drivellers, bigots, drinking my golden wine of Canobia, and
smoking my delicate Latakia. You know not Canobia, Keferinis; but you
have heard of it. You have been at Bted-deen? Well, Bteddeen to Canobia
is an Arab moon to a Syrian sun. The marble alone at Canobia cost a
million of piastres. The stables are worthy of the steeds of Solomon.
You may kill anything you like in the forest, from panthers to
antelopes. Listen, my Keferinis, let this be done, and done quickly, and
Canobia is yours.'
'Do you ever dream?' said Astrate to Tancred. 'They say that life is
a dream.' 'I sometimes wish it were.
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