“Charitable young man! generous, benevolent, excellent young man!”
“Now then,” said Muza, “tell me—you belong to this house—Leila, the maiden within—tell me of her—is she well?”
“I trust so,” returned the Jew; “I trust so, noble master.”
“Trust so! know you not of her state?”
“Not I; for many nights I have not seen her, excellent sir,” answered Ximen; “she hath left Granada, she hath gone. You waste your time and mar your precious health amidst these nightly dews: they are unwholesome, very unwholesome at the time of the new moon.”
“Gone!” echoed the Moor; “left Granada!—woe is me!—and whither?—there, there, more gold for you,—old man, tell me whither?”
“Alas! I know not, most magnanimous young man; I am but a servant—I know nothing.”
“When will she return?”
“I cannot tell thee.”
“Who is thy master? who owns yon mansion?”