The Weavers: a tale of England and Egypt of fifty years ago - Complete. Gilbert Parker

But it is all in the hands of God. We can do nothing more. Thee must go. Thee should not have come. In England thee will forget, as thee should forget. In Egypt I shall remember, as I should remember.”

      “Thee,” she repeated softly. “I love the Quaker thee. My grandmother was an American Quaker. She always spoke like that. Will you not use thee and thou in speaking to me, always?”

      “We are not likely to speak together in any language in the future,” he answered. “But now thee must go, and I will—”

      “My cousin, Mr. Lacey, is waiting for me in the garden,” she answered. “I shall be safe with him.” She moved towards the door. He caught the handle to turn it, when there came the noise of loud talking, and the sound of footsteps in the court-yard. He opened the door slightly and looked out, then closed it quickly. “It is Nahoum Pasha,” he said. “Please, the other room,” he added, and pointed to a curtain. “There is a window leading on a garden. The garden-gate opens on a street leading to the Ezbekiah Square and your hotel.”

      “But, no, I shall stay here,” she said. She drew down her veil, then taking from her pocket another, arranged it also, so that her face was hidden.

      “Thee must go,” he said—“go quickly.” Again he pointed.

      “I will remain,” she rejoined, with determination, and seated herself in a chair.