He drew a long breath. She was surpassing beautiful with that enticing smile. Why should he be greedy of his pleasure?
Love of my heart, bring blushes to my face,
Seek not at wisdom's hand, excuse or grace.
Speed thou my blood in passion's tireless race
Till lip meet lip, and arm with arm embrace
For the love of the heart has no end----
"Âtma! I love thee!"
His quick cry sank before her steady voice:
But the grave
But the cold, cold grave
But the grave!
He gave a slight shiver and drew back; then threw himself beside her. "Come!" he said, "there is life before the grave!"
She shook her head playfully. Not even Siyah Yamin with all her knowing wiles, could have played her part better.
"It is not yet--eleven" she answered and if her face showed haggard it was belied by her gay laugh. "Lo! keep to compact, Mirza Sahib. There is another verse; by then, it may be--eleven!"
She paused a second as if her keen ears had caught some faint sound, then she swept the strings with a resounding force that echoed and re-echoed through the roof, drowning all else.
Love of my soul, bring courage to my heart
Seek not at passion's hand her lure and art.
Claim thou the whole of me and not the part
Though Death meet Death and Life from Life depart
For the love of the soul has no end in the grave.