She stepped back proudly, tore the veil from his hand, and drew it down over her face again. "I have given no one the right to insult me, and you insult me!"

"How musical this sounds! How sweet three words of indignant innocence!"

At this moment Mohammed's voice, in loud, angry tones, was heard in the adjoining room. The pacha smiled, and motioned with his head in that direction.

"You have seen Mohammed Ali, and you now hear him; he is a desperado, and will kill your father!"

"Yes," she murmured to herself, "he will now be pitiless, he will now kill him."

"But I," said the pacha, in gentle tones, "I have pity, and I will save your father."

"You will save him?" she said, tremblingly.

"I will," said he. "But hear me, Masa, charming crimson rose, hear me."

(Editor：reading)