“Oh, have I not!” and El-Râmi laughed lightly as he resumed his seat—“Nay, if I had not I should be more than man. The lightning has flashed across my path, Féraz, I assure you, only it has not killed me; and I have been ready to shed my blood drop by drop, for so slight and imperfect a production of Nature as—a woman! A thing of white flesh and soft curves, and long hair and large eyes, and a laugh like the tinkle of a fountain in our Eastern courts,—a thing with less mind than a kitten, and less fidelity than a hound. Of course there are clever women and faithful women,—but then we men seldom choose these; we are fools, and we pay for our folly. And I also have been a fool in my time,—why should you imagine I have not? It is flattering to me, but why?”
Féraz looked at him again, and in spite of himself smiled, though reluctantly.
“You always seem to treat all earthly emotions with scorn—” he replied evasively, “And once you told me there was no such thing in the world as love.”
“Nor is there—” said El-Râmi quickly—“Not ideal love—not everlasting love. Love in its highest, purest sense, belongs to other planets—in this its golden wings are clipped, and it becomes nothing more than a common and vulgar physical attraction.”
Féraz thrummed his mandolin softly.
“I saw two lovers the other day—” he said—“They seemed divinely happy.”
“Where did you see them?”
“Not here. In the land I know best—my Star.”
El-Râmi looked at him curiously, but forbore to speak.
“They were beautiful—” went on Féraz. “They were resting together on a bank of flowers in a little nook of that lovely forest where there are thousands of song-birds sweeter than nightingales. Music filled the air,—a rosy glory filled the sky,—their arms were twined around each other,—their lips met, and then—oh, then their joy smote me with fear, because,—because I was alone—and they were—together!”