He gave her time to recover her momentary emotion and then went on, still softly and tenderly: "Listen, Helen. I want you to believe me and forgive me, if you can. I know--I remember those moonlight evenings in Scotland--holy and happy evenings, as sweet as flower-scented pages in a young girl's missal; yes, and I did not mean to play with you, Helen, or wound your gentle heart. I almost loved you!" He spoke the words passionately, and for a moment she raised her eyes and looked at him in something of fear as well as sorrow. "'Yes,' I said to my self, 'this woman, so true and pure and fair, is a bride for a king; and if I can win her--if!' Ah, there my musings stopped. But I came to Egypt chiefly to meet you again, knowing that you and your brother were in Cairo. How was I to know, how was I to guess that this horrible thing would happen?"
Helen gazed at him wonderingly.
"What horrible thing?" she asked, falteringly, the rich color coming and going on her face, and her heart beating violently as she put the question.
His eyes flashed.
"This," he answered. "The close and pernicious enthralment of a woman I never met till the night before last; a woman whose face haunts me; a woman who drags me to her side with the force of a magnet, there to grovel like a brain-sick fool and plead with her for a love which I already know is poison to my soul! Helen, Helen! You do not understand--you will never understand! Here, in the very air I breathe, I fancy I can trace the perfume she shakes from her garments as she moves; something indescribably fascinating yet terrible attracts me to her; it is an evil attraction, I know, but I cannot resist it. There is something wicked in every man's nature; I am conscious enough that there is something detestably wicked in mine, and I have not sufficient goodness to overbalance it. And this woman,--this silent, gliding, glittering-eyed creature that has suddenly taken possession of my fancy--she overcomes me in spite of myself; she makes havoc of all the good intentions of my life. I admit it--I confess it!"
"You are speaking of the Princess Ziska?" asked Helen, tremblingly.
"Of whom else should I speak?" he responded, dreamily. "There is no one like her; probably there never was anyone like her, except, perhaps, Ziska-Charmazel!"
As the name passed his lips, he sprang hastily up and stood amazed, as though some sudden voice had called him. Helen Murray looked at him in alarm.