And so his discreet cousin Ayub continually repeated, but, spite of these warnings, Abdul-asis often solaced himself in the company of the fair, specially among the Christian captives, who were both beautiful and well-educated. Indeed, it was here the lonely young Emir spent his happiest hours, as the moon mounted into the realm of blue and star after star shone out to be doubled in the basins of the fountains, the murmur of innumerable jets and streamlets falling on the ear.
It was peace, absolute peace, such as comes to those balancing on the bosom of the sea, or on desert plains, or in the mystery of deep forests, or in the grave!
One night as his eyes range unconsciously into the gloom, he is startled to find that he is not alone.
Deep within a thicket of aloes the lines of a woman’s form are visible, seated upon the ground.
“Who can this be?” he asks himself with breathless haste. “I cannot recall having seen her before, either in the harem or among the captives.”
Yet it was a form, once seen, not to be forgotten. Her dark hair hung like a cloud over her shoulders, and her eyes, as she turned them upwards, catching a ray of moonlight, shone out like stars.
“Who is she?” And Abdul-asis rises softly, the better to observe her. “Yes, she is matchless, but that sadness is not natural. Her attitude, her movements are languid and full of pain. Her hands lie weary. She avoids her companions. What can it mean? Some tale of deep sorrow is shut up in her soul. She is under my roof and I am ignorant of her life. I will at once address her.”
For some minutes he stood silent, his eyes wandering over the many beauties which disclosed themselves to his gaze; but to his astonishment, as he looked closer, he perceived from the dark olive of her skin that the stranger must be an Egyptian or a Moor.
At last, moved by a singular emotion, he addressed her.
“Who are you, gentle lady?” he asked, his naturally sweet voice tuned to its softest accents. “Why do you sit alone? Confide to me your grief.”