My father took the letter and read it, and as he did so an expression of relief came into his face.
"His wife invites you to go to her at once."
"What!" my mother cried, "I go to her? I! And pray why?"
My father pointed to me. "This is the why," and in a few words he related the incident of the previous evening.
"I will not go!" My mother stamped her foot. "I have never crossed a Turk's threshold, and I hope to die without doing so."
My father walked up and down the room twice. At length he said slowly:
"There is the choice of crossing this Turkish threshold—because you are bidden to—or all of us may have to cross the frontier, leaving home and comfort behind us. Saad Pasha is a powerful man—at the present moment the favourite in the palace—and our child has insulted his.
Both my parents remained silent for a minute, and my childish heart burned with hatred for these Turks, who were our masters. It seemed as if I could never live a month without having to hate them anew.
"I cannot speak their dreadful language," my mother protested, half yielding.
"Take this child with you," my father said, pointing again at me. It was dreadful to be called "this child."
