# Terence O'Rourke/Part 2/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII
THE WORDS OF DELILAH
O'Rourke dined alone. It was his custom, for his few friends in Cairo were, for the most part, out of town at the time. And yet, somehow, this evening he was resenting his loneliness, finding it depressive.
To his extreme disgust, too, he discovered that his interview with Prince Viazma had been of such length that, by the time he was suitably dressed for dining, his goddess of the Egyptian night had taken her departure; he was therefore deprived of what would have been some consolation to him in his gloom—the interchange of glances, stealthy and sweet, that had been theirs on other nights, lending a glamour to all the evening for O'Rourke.
He grumbled, eating slowly and considering.
"There's one thing certain," he told himself. "'Tis no place for the O'Rourke any more—Cairo. 'Tis very likely to become unhealthy to a person of me excitable disposition. I know too much, and there are entirely too many thugs in the city streets—Greeks and Armenians, for instance—that'd think of sticking a knife in me back as soon as they'd think of taking pay for the pleasure av doing it.
"Small wonder," he mused again, later, "that me friend, Doone Pasha, has been unable to get me a billet in the Khedival army! Oho! sure, 'tis like a searchlight on a dark night—this little proposal of me prince incognito. I begin to see various things. And the first and foremost av them ​is to stay quiet-like here in the hotel, I'm thinking, until Aurora's rosy fingers paint the dawn, and meself is on the train to Port Said. Faith, but 'tis meself that despises a Russian!"
He was, indeed, inclined to caution. If he remained at Shepheard's, without doubt he would keep himself within the bounds of safety. But if he chose to wander in the streets—well, there would undeniably be danger.
"And the worst of it is," he rebelled, "that 'tis all for a scruple. For why should I respect the man's confidence, when he forces it upon me?"
Honor is a subtle thing, of much seeming inconsistency at times; now it was keeping the man's lips sealed when he had cause to speak—grave cause, in point of fact.
But for his own skin he held such a profound respect that he found comfort in the weight of the revolver that was sagging his evening coat out of shape. There was little likelihood that he would be called upon to use it, in Shepheard's; and yet, your Russian is a strange man, with kinks in his brain that move his feet into devious ways, beyond the understanding of men who fight in the open. O'Rourke was taking no chances.
He spent the best part of the evening miserably enough; the music of the orchestra tired him; he strolled into the gaming rooms, but the rattle of coin and the whirring and the click of the roulette wheel had no fascination for the born gambler, that night; his brain teemed with other thoughts of a more absorbing interest.
Barring companionship of one of his own kind—which he craved—the next best thing seemed a solitude absolute. He paused in a doorway leading to the terrace.
Out there he might find what he desired; it was cool ​enough—for the night breeze from off the desert held a nipping quality at times—to keep the tables from being crowded; at the same time, there were enough loitering guests and a sufficiency of light to insure against a stealthy attack.
O'Rourke ordered a drink and sought a secluded table, which he discovered in the shadow of a palm. Here he sat him down to soothe his soul with a smoke. Hardly had he settled comfortably, however, ere he had cause to regret his choice.
The night was yet young: as much as to say that it wanted little of midnight. But Cairo was alive; and momentarily carriages were driving up in front of the hotel, bearing returning pleasure seekers or taking guests to their homes.
From one presently alighted a man and a woman. O'Rourke, deep in thought of the Russian plot, gave them a transient inspection, noted something familiar in their aspect, and paid them no more attention until they took possession of the table immediately adjoining his own.
Thereupon, "Oh, the divvle!" exclaimed the Irishman. "Must I move to escape their infernal chatter? Faith, 'tis meself that may as well get me to bed."
He would have done wisely had he acted upon the impulse. Instead, the man lingered, reluctant to abandon his smoke; and a ray of light, sifting through the fronds of a waving palm, fell full upon the face of the woman.
The Irishman gripped the edges of his chair suddenly, feeling the blood hammering madly through his pulses. "Me goddess!" he said, under his breath. "Faith, but the beauty of her, each time, is like a blow in me face!"
For it was his divinity of the Egyptian night; and she was staring at him, frankly and without reserve, for the moment.
"Can it be that she knows me?" he asked himself. "Sure, ​were she less beautiful her look would be bold, O'Rourke, me boy! Does she know who she's looking at? Dare I believe that?"
Abruptly she turned and said a low word or two to her companion. With a murmured reply, he rose—the tall Egyptian—and left her, passing on into the hotel.
"Faith," commented O'Rourke, "'twas a queer move to make." And he bent forward, feasting his eyes with her surpassing loveliness—more entrancing now than ever, when the soft, warm shadows of the night were a background to hair and eyes that seemed a part of that same night.
And suddenly it was plain to him that she was again regarding him, and again, with what he dared believe was no disfavor.
"No," he told himself stubbornly. "'Tis a fool ye are, O'Rourke, with your self-conceit! For what would she be lowering herself to speak with ye, penniless vagabond that ye are?"
And yet it was very true that she had spoken; for, upon the repetition of her address, the man could not deny the evidence of his hearing.
"Monsieur the Colonel O'Rourke, is it not?" she was saying—but rather timidly, as though she either feared the consequences of her act because of the audacity of the man, or was apprehensive of being overheard.
"Madame!" cried the Irishman rising. "Is it indeed meself that ye mean?"
He stood hesitant; truly, the man's awe of her was no pretense; O'Rourke's life—or a fair part of it—had been spent on his knees in worship of beauty such as was hers.
"If you are really Colonel O'Rourke?"
​"I am that," he declared. "And at your service, madame."
She leaned easily back in her chair, but with a swift, frightened look around the terrace. It seemed that they were unremarked; the others who lingered thereabouts were preoccupied with their own affairs. And the fact encouraged her.
She faced him again, joining her hands before her on the table; and O'Rourke could see that she was trembling as with an excess of emotion—with fear, perhaps, or with some overpowering anxiety, or with a passion which he could not, in the nature of things, comprehend, but which had power to shake her like a reed in the wind.
"Monsieur—" she began again.
He approached more nearly, and bore himself with a deference which he hoped would be reassuring. "Madame," he questioned, "is there anything that I can do for ye?"
"Ah, monsieur, there is so much—if you can—if you only will!"
The hands were unclasped and extended in appeal; and they were very dainty and white, and moving with the helplessness they indicated. O'Rourke dared to catch one of them gently in his broad palm; with a quick movement he carried it to his lips, and released it.
"Monsieur!"
He was crushed by the reproach in her eyes. "But, madame," he pleaded humbly, "we are too deep in shadow to have been seen! And, sure, I couldn't help it—though, faith, ye must believe 'twas with all the respect in the world—"
She cut him short with an impatient movement. "I forgive," she told him. "I—I misunderstood. Pardon me, monsieur. But—I have so little time—"
​"Then tell me quickly," he besought her, "in what I may serve ye."
"Ah, but do you mean it? I have such need of a friend, monsieur!"
"'Tis me hope, madame, that I may be made happy by being termed such."
"You don't know me, monsieur?" she doubted, with a pursing of her lips that nigh maddened the man.
For he had considered them rather in the way of perfection, as the lips of women go; and the heart of O'Rourke, though steadfast enough in the long run, was alarmingly tender towards beauty in distress.
"I have known ye long—in me dreams, madame."
"Ah!" she cried softly, as though his gallant words meant much to her—which, her eyes were telling him, was so. Nor was he loath to believe.
"I—I have noticed you, monsieur," she said at length, "many times. You may have guessed—"
"Faith, I laid it to me egotism, madame!"
"And all the time I was wishing that I might have a man such as you to lean upon in my trouble. Ah, monsieur! if I only had—"
"I'm here," he suggested simply.
At that moment she turned, with an apprehensive glance over her shoulder, and uttered a little cry of alarm. O'Rourke followed her gaze, and saw, stark and black in the doorway of Shepheard's, the slim figure of the returning Egyptian.
"Quick!" cried the woman. "Do not let him see—"
He lingered a perilous instant. " What am I to do?"
"Wait here, monsieur—to-night—I will let you know."
And, suddenly, O'Rourke was back in his chair, calmly enough watching the uptwisting smoke of his cigar.
​For all that, the man's heart was rioting within him; her words, with their call upon his chivalric nature, her eyes, with their enchantment for his senses, the music of her voice—it was as though these had distilled into the man's veins some magic potion, filling them with a sweet madness.
"But 'tis meself that's the fool!" he repented bitterly, a second later. For madame's escort had approached, and, with a curt word to her, had offered his arm. She had taken it without reply; and now their carriage was gone into the mysterious night, leaving O'Rourke without so much as a backward glance, or a parting gesture of her free hand—leaving him half staggered by the unreality of the whole affair and more than half inclined to believe that he had dreamed it.