The war maker : $b Being the true story of Captain George B. BoyntonSmith, Horace Herbert
History
The war maker : $b Being the true story of Captain George B. Boynton
Smith, Horace Herbert
Filibusters
After dinner I retired to the same out-of-the-way corner of the garden
in which I had been found the night before, on the side farthest away
from the hotel and the music, to await developments. It probably was
not long, but it seemed hours, before the same three women came up
the short flight of steps running down to the street. The one who was
doing duty as a letter carrier, and who bore the imaginative name of
Ialla, was the last to appear. On reaching the level of the garden
her eyes roamed quickly around until they turned toward where I was
sitting. Seeing me, she drew her veil across her face, as though she
resented being classed with the unregenerate fellahin, and wished to
show more discrimination in her love affairs than they could boast,
and accompanied her companions in their ostensible bargaining tour
among the guests. To one who paid them even casual attention they must
have appeared as timid traders, so lacking were they in the customary
insistence, and it was with small profits and no great loss of time
that they found their way around to me. As on the night before, it was
left to Ialla to barter with me. I again took both of her hands in
mine, to examine her jewelry, of which she wore a wealth that, like her
looks, belied her dress, and as I did so I slipped into one of them the
tightly folded note which I had been gripping for an hour or more. Her
jewels were much richer than those she had worn the previous evening
and as I studied their barbaric beauty I softly pressed her childish
hands, as the only means of conveying something of the impression she
had made on me, for I did not know the extent to which the other women
were in our secret or could be trusted. Her only response was one quick
glance, which I interpreted as a mixture of pleasure, surprise, and
interrogation; the one distinctly pleasant thing about it was that it
contained nothing of indignation or hostility. Save for that electric
flash her wonderful eyes looked modestly downward and her whole
attitude was one of perfect propriety, which more than ever convinced
me that she was not what she pretended to be. Finally she drew her
hands away, hurriedly but gently, and with an impatient gesture,
as though she had made up her mind that I had no idea of making a
purchase, led her companions out of the garden.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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