“In its light slowly passed the young emir, mounted on Azib, his beautiful white horse.
“Azib, gentle as a lamb, courageous as a lion, white as a swan.
“The emir let his reins fall on the neck of Azib. Happy, he sang of a happy love, and accompanied himself on his guzla.
“His songs were not joyous: they were tender; they were melancholy.
“He passed, singing.
“‘Silence, child, silence!’ whispered my mother, pressing my hand convulsively. ‘That voice divine does me so much good!’
“Hélas! by degrees the voice died away; the emir had passed; the voice was gone; then one heard nothing more,—nothing more; not a sound.
“‘Ah, I fall back in the dreadful horror of my night,’ said my mother. ‘This celestial music seemed to dissipate the darkness. Alas! alas!’ and she wrung her hands in despair.
“Alas! all night she wept.
“The morrow her despair increased; her reason grew feeble. In her delirium she called me a wicked son. She accused me of silencing this voice. If she heard this voice no more, she must die.