"If I but knew my Lubna there!" repeated Osman Bey, in low, tremulous tones.—"You wish to know when I first heard this song? I will tell you. It was on the evening of a bloody day of battle; I had ridden at the side of our great chieftain, Mourad Bey. He called me his friend, his—"
"His favorite," said Sitta Nefysseh, interrupting him. "He said he loved you like a brother, and would confide to you without fear or hesitation all he loved best—his wife, his child—knowing that they would be guarded and held sacred as though they were in the holiest niche of the mosque. Yes, my noble husband loved you. And now, speak on. You had gone out to battle."
"Yes, it was a bloody day. The angel of death hovered over us, and the swords of the enemy swept heavily upon our ranks. A sabre-stroke dealt by Bashi Seref fell upon the sword-arm of my noble friend, striking him down and disabling him. The Turk was preparing to deal a second blow, when I struck him to the earth with my ataghan. I then bore my friend from the conflict to his tent, and there you were, Sitta Nefysseh. You received the hero from my arms, and for the first time I saw your unveiled countenance. I then returned to the battle, and took Mourad's place at the head of his Mamelukes. Whether it was anger over the wounding of my friend, or the bliss caused by the lovely image I had beheld, I know not, but my arm was strong and mighty, and love and heroism exulted in my heart. I called out to the Mamelukes, `We must and will die or conquer!' But, being still too young to die, and loving life too well, we conquered. The enemy was driven from the field, and ours was the victory. We encamped on the field after the bloody conflict; and then, having won the victory, I felt privileged, when evening came, to repair to Mourad's tent to report our success.
"No one was there to announce me; I drew back the curtain and entered the first room. No one was there, and the curtain of the inner apartment of the tent was half drawn aside. I went no farther, knowing that the wounded Mourad lay there on his cushions, and that Sitta Nefysseh was with him. I knew this because I heard her singing; she sang her beloved to sleep as a mother lulls her babe to rest, or as the houris sing in paradise, when they in wondrous melody announce the joys of heaven to dying mortals.
"I remained standing in the tent and listened to your song, Sitta Nefysseh. You sang to your husband of love and happiness—sang in sweet words what Djumeil says to his Lubna: `Nature breathes love. The bird in the air sings of love; the spring which bubbles at your feet murmurs of love; the rose that blossoms in the garden sheds love's fragrance—all is love and bliss. Woe to them who know nothing more of love, woe to them who bear a cold heart in their bosom.' This you sang, Sitta Nefysseh, and I stood listening, entranced. What I then felt was so all-absorbing, so divinely beautiful, that I was unwilling to have the harmony of that sweet moment broken in upon by the voice of man. I silently withdrew; your song informed me that Mourad slept and was in heavenly bliss. I noiselessly left the tent, and stepped out into the night. The moon shed its soft light around, enveloping the white tents scattered over the plain and the terrors of the day in a heavenly, silver veil.
"I did not return to my tent that night, however. Where was I? If you should ask, Sitta Nefysseh, I could not tell you. But this much I can tell you, I was in paradise! I thought of this when I just now heard your slaves sing the song I then heard for the first time, and that has resounded in my heart ever since. I covered it with thick veils, and laid my hand on it to silence it: and I found it possible to do so while my noble friend Mourad still lived. I forced my heart to bury in its depths its wishes and longings. I have been silent, Sitta Nefysseh, not only while Mourad lived, but I have also honored the period allotted to a widow's mourning. But this is now passed; pain has vanisbed from your heart, I trust. Your heavenly countenance is again radiant with youthful loveliness, and no longer shows the traces of sorrow."
"It is true, Osman Bey," said Nefysseh, with a low sigh; "time heals all wounds, and sorrow no longer darkens my soul; yet know that Mourad Bey still lives in my heart, and it is because he still lives for me that I am able to bear this life and this separation."
"I well know, O Sitta, your fidelity, your noble sentiments," replied Bardissi; "it is this knowledge that makes me adore and reverence you; and were it not strange if I, too, could ever forget the man who loved you so passionately, and whose memory you still love? But such love, Sitta, excites no jealousy, and even he who loves passionately respects such love. Listen to me, Sitta Nefysseh; hear why I have come to you; I can endure it no longer; the seal must at last fall from his lips, and Bardissi must give utterance to what he feels, to that which glows in his heart, and can no longer be repressed. Yes, Sitta Nefysseh, you must at last hear that I am dying for love, and that if you refuse to hear me, I must—"
"Silence!" exclaimed Nefysseh, interrupting him, with queenly composure, as she rose from her seat—"silence, Osman Bey! do you not know that my husband Mourad lived here in this garden, in this place? How could his wife, Sitta Nefysseh, have received you unveiled if her husband had not stood by her side? Do you not see him, Osman Bey? Do you not see his eyes fixed on you with an angry expression, and do not his lips ask his friend how he can betray friendship? What was your promise to Mourad? To honor and guard his wife while you lived."
"And I will, Sitta Nefysseh. I do guard and honor her, but I also love her as ardently as ever man loved woman!" exclaimed Bardissi, in passionate tones. "Does not man honor woman most when he loves her best? How can I better prove my adoration and reverence than by laying my life at your feet, and saying, in tones of humble entreaty, `Sitta Nefysseh, be my wife, follow me to my house, and be mistress of myself and of all that I am?"