“Yes; very curious and fantastic. I’ve heard a great deal about the doctrine of re-incarnation. I don’t believe in it,--I can’t believe in it! But if I could: if I could imagine I had ever met you in some bygone time, and you were like what you are at this moment, I should have loved you,--I _must_ have loved you! You see I cannot leave the subject of love alone; and your re-incarnation idea gives my fancy something to work upon. So, beautiful Ziska, if your soul ever took the form of a flower, I must have been its companion blossom; if it ever paced the forest as a beast of prey, I must have been its mate; if it ever was human before, then I must have been its lover! Do you like such pretty follies? I will talk them by the hour.” Here he rose, and with a movement that was half fierce and half tender, he knelt beside her, taking her hands in his own. “I love you, Ziska! I cannot help myself. I am drawn to you by some force stronger than my own will; but you need not be afraid of me--not yet! As I said, I can wait. I can endure the mingled torture and rapture of this sudden passion and make no sign, till my patience tires, and then--then I will win you if I die for it!” He sprang up before she could speak a word in answer, and seizing his canvas again, exclaimed gayly: “Now for the hues of morning and evening combined, to paint the radiance of this wicked soul of love that so enthralls me! First, the raven-black of midnight for the hair,--the lustre of the coldest, brightest stars for eyes,--the blush-rose of early dawn for lips and cheeks. Ah! How shall I make a real beginning of this marvel?” “It will be difficult, I fear,” said Ziska slowly, with a faint, cold smile; “and still more difficult, perchance, will be the end!” CHAPTER VIII. /The/ table d’hôte at the Gezireh Palace Hotel had already begun when Gervase entered the dining-room and sat down near Lady Fulkeward and Dr. Dean. “You have missed the soup,” said her ladyship, looking up at him with a sweet smile. “All you artists are alike,--you have no idea whatever of time. And how have you succeeded with that charming mysterious person, the Princess Ziska?” Gervase kept his gaze steadily fixed on the table-cloth. He was extremely pale, and had the air of one who has gone through some great mental exhaustion. “I have not succeeded as well as I expected,” he answered slowly. “I think my hand must have lost its cunning. At any rate, whatever the reason may be, Art has been defeated by Nature.” He crumbled up the piece of bread near his plate in small portions with a kind of involuntary violence in the action, and Dr. Dean, deliberately drawing out a pair of spectacles from their case, adjusted them, and surveyed him curiously. “You mean to say that you cannot paint the Princess’s picture?” Gervase glanced up at him with a half-sullen, half-defiant expression.