"I paused, O Sitta, Rose of Cairo—I paused because I heard the song of the slaves—they are singing my favorite song."
"The song is known to you?" said Sitta Nefysseh.
"It is. Do you know, Sitta, when I first heard this song?"
"I do not," replied she, shaking her head gently.
"May I tell you?"
"Do so; seat yourself on the marble stool standing at the entrance of the kiosk, and tell me."
She falls back upon her cushion with the easy grace of a swan. But Bardissi does not take the seat so graciously assigned him. He steps forward and remains standing in front of Sitta Nefysseh, gazing down upon her with reverence and delight, as though his glances were a consecrated gold-inworked veil in which he wishes to envelop her lovely form, and draw her to his heart.
"Well, Osman Bey, when did you first hear this song?"
He remains silent for a moment; the bees are humming in the air, the fountains flashing, and from the distance the words of the song the slaves are singing are wafted over by the gentle breeze:
"Thee alone on earth have I loved. My longing heart is drawn to thee. And, though this earth were heaven, and it contained my Lubna not, I'd wander rather through the gates of hell if I but knew my Lubna there!"