Bestows upon me, as supreme reward—
O irony!—the hand of this poor girl.
Says, “Here I have the pearl of pearls for you,
Such as was never plucked from out the deep
By Indian diver, for a Sultan’s crown.
Your joy’s decreed,” and stabs me with a smile.
She. And she—she loves you.
He. I know not, indeed. Likes me perhaps.
What matters it?—her love?
Sidor Yurievich, the guardian, consents, and she consents.