"He needs repose," said she, stepping into the adjoining room to see that the other wounded were being well cared for. "Youssouf Bey needs repose. Be still, move noiselessly, and do not disturb his sleep! It may be the sleep of death. Be still, close the doors and draw the curtains, that no noise may reach him!"
It is perfectly quiet in the room where Youssouf Bey lies. Sitta Nefysseh kneels beside him. Her hands folded in silent prayer, her eyes fastened on his countenance, she bends over him and breathes her warm, glowing breath through his cold lips, to give him of her life, and bathes his cold brow with her warm tears.
Sitta Nefysseh's prayerful, tearful entreaties are heard. Youssouf Bey awakens from his death-like slumber. Love has recalled the spirit to the body. Love opens his eyes and permits him to see and recognize her who is bowed over him, regarding him with loving tenderness.
"Is it you, Sitta Nefysseh? Am I already dead, and is it a divine being that looks at me with your eyes?"
"No, my Youssouf, you live and are with me on earth!"
"Oh, it is impossible—impossible! Only a sweet illusion," whispers he, with quivering lips; his eyes close, and he falls back heavily.
But she bends over him, strokes his brow and cheek with gentle touch, and calls him loving names.
"You live," murmurs she, "oh, feel that you live, dear Youssouf,
Feel it in this kiss!"
A soft tremor courses through his entire being, and his eyes open.
Yes, he lives! He is not dead! This is Nefysseh's victory over death, this is the result of the impassioned kiss impressed on the lips of her beloved.