"Once in his youth—and at hearing this, O Princess, the brown-faced sons of the desert, old and young, laugh, and clap their hands—he gave of his grandfather's store until the prudent old man, intending to cure him of his extravagance, sent him to tend his herds in the country. Alas!
"Across the plain Hatim one day beheld a caravan, and finding it escorting three poets to the court of the King of El-Herah, he invited them to stop with him, and while he killed a camel for each of them, they recited songs in his praise, and that of his kin. When they wished to resume the journey, he detained them.
"'There is no gift like the gift of song,' he said. 'I will do better by you than will he, the King to whom you are going. Stay with me, and for every verse you write I will give you a camel. Behold the herd!'
"And at departing, they had each a hundred camels, and he three hundred verses.
"'Where is the herd?' the grandfather asked, when next he came to the pasture.
"'See thou. Here are songs in honor of our house,' Hatim answered, proudly—'songs by great poets; and they will be repeated until all Arabia is filled with our glory.'
"'Alas! Thou hast ruined me!' the elder cried, beating his breast.
"'What!' said Hatim, indignantly. 'Carest thou more for the dirty brutes than for the crown of honor I bought with them?'"
Here the Arab paused. The recitation, it is to be remarked, had been without action, or facial assistance—a wholly unornate delivery; and now he kept stately silence. His eyes, intensely bright in the shadow of the kufiyeh, may have produced the spell which held the Princess throughout; or it may have been the eyes and voice; or, quite as likely, the character of Hatim touched a responsive chord in her breast.
"I thank you," she said, adding presently: "In saying I regret the story ended so soon, I pray you receive my opinion of its telling. I doubt if Hatim himself could have rendered it better."