And here, in the equatorial mists of this sumptuous haunt, chance was to decide for him where and how the vacation was to be spent.
For while reclining in the innermost sudatorium, as with a flash of his scholarly and sophisticated wit, he called it, he began, naturally enough, to fashion and recite aloud a poem inspired by his extraordinary Oriental surroundings. Full of the mysterious fascination of the immemorial East, the words fell true and rounded from his lips, like far-off bells sounding in intricate cadence.
“How honey-sweet thy waters, O Khara-kharoum, how long
And lingering my broken years
That drain this cup of exile tears
Far from thy cool delights, Khara-kharoum,
In Youmadong!”
He paused at that plaintive drop in the rhythm of this first ghazel, when suddenly a flute-like voice whispered through the steam.
“Omar reincarnate!” he heard in tones of passionate admiration.
Gav was silent.