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he red that ruled the painting；

despite　being　surrounded　by　all　of　these　things　I　loved；　including　my　dervish

panions and the woman who resembled beautiful Shekure； I’d still be

lonely。　I’m　not　afraid　of　possessing　character　and　individuality；　nor　do　I　fear

others bowing down and worshiping me； on the contrary； this is what I

desire。”

“You　mean　to　say　that　you　feel　no　remorse？”　said　Stork　like　a　man　who’d

just　left　a　Friday　sermon。

“I　feel　like　the　Devil　not　because　I’ve　murdered　two　men；　but　because　my

portrait　has　been　made　in　this　fashion。　I　suspect　that　I　did　away　with　them　so　I

could　make　this　picture。　But　now　the　isolation　I　feel　terrifies　me。　Imitating　the

Frankish　masters　without　having　attained　their　expertise　makes　a　miniaturist

even　more　of　a　slave。　Now　I’m　desperate　to　escape　this　trap。　Of　course；　all　of

you　know：　After　all　is　said　and　done；　I　killed　them　both　so　the　workshop　might

persist　as　it　always　has；　and　Allah　certainly　knows　this　too。”

“Yet this will bring even greater trouble upon us；” said my beloved

Butterfly。

I　abruptly　grabbed　the　wrist　of　that　fool　Black；　who　was　still　looking　at　the

picture； and with all my strength； digging my nails into his flesh； I angrily

squeezed　and　twisted　it。　The　dagger　that　he　rather　timidly　held　dropped　from

his　hand。　I　grabbed　it　from　the　ground。

“But　now　you　won’t　be　able　to　resolve　your　troubles　by　handing　me　over　to

the　torturer；”　I　said。　As　if　to　poke　out　his　eye；　I　brought　the　point　of　the　dagger

toward　Black’s　face。　“Give　me　the　plume　needle。”

He　took　it　out　and　handed　it　to　me　with　his　good　han