"Bid them remove them, my lord," she said eagerly. "Lo! they are garish. Are not mine eyes and the stars sufficient for--for lovers?" She hung her head and looked at him. Her cheeks showed a crimson flush beneath the corn-coloured skin, her eyes blazed, indeed, like many stars.
He gave the order instantly, and as it was being executed walked to the parapet whence he could feast his eye upon the picture she made as she sate in the cupola, the rose garlands bending to touch her, the light of the seven-lamped cresset on the step below her shining full on her face, and glinting behind her on cold steel of sword and hauberk. Aye! she was right. The coloured lights were garish; she was colourful enough herself; she needed no adventitious aids to passion; that hint of cold steel was enough! His blood rose to fever heat.
"Quick slaves! quick!" he cried. "Are we to be kept waiting all night."
Her laugh rang out provocatively. "My lord is before his time. It is not yet eleven! Drink to our love, Mirza--or stay! Let us drink to the truth between us!" She filled two goblets of the good red wine and passed him one. "So! to the truth between us," she cried; then, as she drained the glass flung it far into the darkness of the night. It showed curving comet-like, then sank, a distant tinkle telling where it had smashed to atoms. "Thine also! Thine also! Ibrahîm!" she cried. "To the Truth between us!"
He muttered something unheard, flung his glass away, then essaying a laugh caught up a lute and began to sing in high airy trills:
Lo! the green-hued sea of heaven
And the crescent moon its ship
Bear me, dearest, to the haven
Where Love's Anchor I may dip
In the harbour of thy bosom.
Find in shelter of thy lip
Kisses seven! Kisses seven
Oh! what nectar--One more sip
Surely thou wilt be forgiven
Even angels sometimes trip.
As he stood there dressed in white from head to foot, becurled, bescented, bedandyfied, Âtma thought of the man who had stood there before, and something purely savage crept into her smile.
"Lo! thou singest well" she said. "So do I, give me the lute?"
The servants had gone. He crossed to her, passion in his eyes. "I came not here for lutes." he cried almost brutally, "I came for love!"
She motioned him back with her hand. "It is not yet--eleven! And I will sing--of--of--love."