From a remote past there arose memories in me, memories perhaps acquired through reading, or lived in former existences; and pictures came before me of Greek parents weeping because a little girl was born to them—a little girl who, if she grew up to be pretty, would be mercilessly snatched from them and taken to a Turkish selamlik. And as picture succeeded picture, I became again entirely the child of my uncle, with a hatred for the Turks as ungovernable as it seemed holy.
Wild now, like a fierce little brute, I struck Mechmet, and struck and struck again; and at the sight of the blood flowing from his nose an exaltation possessed me. I was a girl, I could not carry arms—but with my own hands I could kill a Turkish boy, and be able to say to my uncle when we met again in the other world: "Uncle, girl though I am, I have killed a Turk!"
Djimlah, after vainly imploring us to stop fighting, ran to the cistern and drew a bucket of cold water. In our battle we had fallen down, and Djimlah drenched us with water, and the icy shower stopped our battle.
In our room she was very severe with me. "Baby mine, I believe sometimes you are mad! Why, you ought only to be glad if a boy says he will marry you. What are girls for, but to be given to men and to bear them children?"
"Did I kill him?" I asked anxiously.
