He returned after long hours to Ali-Shîr's palace, worn out in body, but yet more restless in mind. He had decided that this must be love--love at long last. In that case he must write verses, and began to catalogue the beauty of the face he had seen.
He remembered, now, that they were unusual; for little Cousin Ma'asuma had the rare distinction of fairish hair and blue eyes. A little flowerful face, merry, sparkling; rebellious curling hair flecked with red gold--a tint of rose and creamy champak--
All this he remembered dreamily as he laboured to fit together the fine mosaic of a Persian love ode.
"Impassioned loved one! fairest of the fair,
The waving tendrils of thy bronze gold hair
Spread round thy face each one a separate snare;
Thine eyes are vi'lets, centred by black bees
Who seek to drain their sweetness to the lees;
Thine eyebrows arch--"
He got so far as this, then threw away his pen in disgust.
Anyone could write that sort of stuff. He had read pages of it in books: had sung such rhymes by the score. But that sort of thing had nothing to do with his great love for Ma'asuma and hers for him.
For she had loved him, of course. The reverse was incredible, absurd.
He turned round and buried his face in the downy cushions that had, as usual, been spread for him in his favourite corner of the colonnade.
He had had no dinner. He did not want any. He had refused his cousin's invitations with some excuse. He forgot what--it did not matter. Nothing in the wide world mattered but his love for Ma'asuma and hers for him.
The moon was still bright. Not quite so bright as it had been that night, five days ago, when he had promised to marry someone else.