He paced quicker as he remembered the words which had so touched him-- "And God the Father may send a father's love to the mother of his son." Well! God send He might; though that would be a different sort of love altogether from this absorbing passion. Anyhow he could do no more. A Kâzi, able if necessary to perform the marriage ceremony, was within call. He, himself, was ready. All that was wanting was the lady. Surely she was late in coming.
A rustle made him start and listen; but it was only the doves in the orange trees.
No one! No one!
The moon rose after a time over the garden and flooded the terraces with such silvern brilliance that the very pebbles on the path showed distinct.
But no one came--no one!
Could she have heard?
Impossible; it was still a Court secret, and she was a religious recluse--so far as he knew.
Besides; even if she had changed her mind, she might have come--or sent a message.
So, at last, in rather an ill humour he went back to the Palace and dismissed the waiting Kâzi with a handsome fee.
There was one more Friday ere he left Herât; and, feeling ill-used, sore, yet in a way mightily relieved, he waited in Ali-Shîr's tomb for another hour or so. No one should say he had failed in his part of the bargain! He was quite ready. Besides he had told the woman plainly that he was not in love with her; so she had no right to feel aggrieved. If she did.