gazed out into the darkness. In a minute she rose. "Come, Thunderstorm," she said to me, "I think we might as well go to our tent."
The young Turk rose, too, and barred her way respectfully.
"Hanoum Effendi," he said, speaking in Turkish now, "I love you—will you be my wife?"
"Does the effendi think it would be so great an honour?" she asked, with a little catch in her voice.
"It would be an honour for me; it would give me the privilege of worshipping you, of protecting you, of taking away all thorns from your path, and of strewing it with roses. I ask to be allowed to be your servant, as you are the mistress of my soul."
"The effendi speaks very beautifully," she commented.
"I love you!" he cried. "I love you!"
She gave him her right hand, and he, bending as a worshipper, touched it with his lips; then as a man he drew her to him, and covered her hair and her eyes and her lips with his kisses.
When Chakendé and I retreated to the little tent arranged for us, the young Turk lay down on the ground outside, across the doorway. Chakendé on her rug prayed to Allah, her uninjured arm upstretched with the palm toward
