“You can jest,” he said. “You are always jesting. But you do not know--you cannot read the horrible thoughts in my mind. I cannot resolve their meaning even to myself. There is some truth in your light words; I feel, I know instinctively, that the woman I love has an attraction about her which is not good, but evil; yet what does that matter? Do not men sometimes love vile women?” “Always!” replied Gervase briefly. “Gervase, I have suffered tortures ever since I saw her face!” exclaimed the unhappy lad, his self-control suddenly giving way. “You cannot imagine what my life has been! Her eyes make me mad,--the merest touch of her hand seems to drag me away invisibly. …” “To perdition!” finished Gervase. “That is the usual end of the journey we men take with beautiful women.” “And now,” went on Denzil, hardly heeding him, “as if my own despair were not sufficient, you must needs add to it! What evil fate, I wonder, sent you to Cairo! Of course, I have no chance with her now; you are sure to win the day. And can you wonder then that I feel as if I could kill you?” “Oh, I wonder at nothing,” said Gervase calmly, “except, perhaps, at myself. And I echo your words most feelingly,--What evil fate sent me to Cairo? I cannot tell! But here I purpose to remain. My dear Murray, don’t let us quarrel if we can help it; it is such a waste of time. I am not angry with you for loving _la belle_ Ziska,--try, therefore, not to be angry with me. Let the fair one herself decide as to our merits. My own opinion is that she cares for neither of us, and, moreover, that she never will care for any one except her fascinating self. And certainly her charms are quite enough to engross her whole attention. By the way, let me ask you, Denzil, in this headstrong passion of yours,--for it is a headstrong passion, just as mine is,--do you actually intend to make the Ziska your wife if she will have you?” “Of course,” replied Murray, with some haughtiness. A fleeting expression of amusement flitted over Gervase’s features. “It is very honorable of you,” he said, “very! My dear boy, you shall have your full chance. Because I--I would not make the Princess Madame Gervase for all the world! She is not formed for a life of domesticity--and pardon me--I cannot picture her as the contented châtelaine of your grand old Scotch castle in Ross-shire.” “Why not?” “From an artistic point of view the idea is incongruous,” said Gervase lazily. “Nevertheless, I will not interfere with your wooing.” Denzil’s face brightened. “You will not?”