“He is an angel or a fiend,” she said in low meditative accents. “Or maybe he is both in one. He saved me from death once—I shall never forget that. And by his power he sent me back to my native land last night—I bound my black tresses with pearl and gold, and laughed and sang,—I was young again!”—and with a sudden cry she raised her hands above her head and clapped them fiercely together, so that the silver bangles on her arms jangled like bells;—“As God liveth, I was young! You know what it is to be young”—and she turned her dark orbs half enviously upon Féraz, who, leaning against his brother’s writing-table, regarded her with interest and something of awe—“or you should know it! To feel the blood leap in the veins, while the happy heart keeps time like the beat of a joyous cymbal,—to catch the breath and tremble with ecstasy as the eyes one loves best in the world flash lightning-passion into your own,—to make companions of the roses, and feel the pulses quicken at the songs of birds,—to tread the ground so lightly as to scarcely know whether it is earth or air—this is to be young!—young!—and I was young last night. My love was with me,—my love, my more than lover—‘Zaroba, beautiful Zaroba!’ he said, and his kisses were as honey on my lips—‘Zaroba, pearl of passion! fountain of sweetness in a desert land!—thine eyes are fire in which I burn my soul,—thy round arms the prison in which I lock my heart! Zaroba, beautiful Zaroba!’—Beautiful! Ay!—through the power of El-Râmi I was fair to see—last night! ... only last night!”
Her voice sank down into a feeble wailing, and Féraz gazed at her compassionately and in a little wonder,—he was accustomed to see her in various strange and incomprehensible moods, but she was seldom so excited as now.
“Why do you not laugh?” she asked suddenly and with a touch of defiance—“Why do you not laugh at me?—at me, the wretched Zaroba,—old and unsightly—bent and wrinkled!—that I should dare to say I was once beautiful!—It is a thing to make sport of—an old forsaken woman’s dream of her dead youth.”
With an impulsive movement that was as graceful as it was becoming, Féraz, for sole reply, dropped on one knee beside her, and, taking her wrinkled hand, touched it lightly but reverently with his lips. She trembled, and great tears rose in her eyes.
“Poor boy!” she muttered—“Poor child!—a child to me, and yet a man! As God liveth, a man!” She looked at him with a curious steadfastness. “Good Féraz, forgive me—I did you wrong—I know you would not mock the aged, or make wanton sport of their incurable woes,—you are too gentle. I would in truth you were less mild of spirit—less womanish of heart!”
“Womanish!” and Féraz leaped up, stung by the word, he knew not why. His heart beat strangely—his blood tingled,—it seemed to him that if he had possessed a weapon his instinct would have been to draw it then. Never had he looked so handsome; and Zaroba, watching his expression, clapped her withered hands in a sort of witch-like triumph.
“Ha!”—she cried—“The man’s mettle speaks! There is something more than the dreamer in you then—something that will help you to explain the mystery of your existence—something that says—‘Féraz, you are the slave of destiny—up! be its master! Féraz, you sleep—awake!’” and Zaroba stood up tall and imposing, with the air of an inspired sorceress delivering a prophecy—“Féraz, you have manhood—prove it!—Féraz, you have missed the one joy of life—Love!—Win it!”
Féraz stared at her amazed. Her words were such as she had never addressed to him before, and yet they moved him with a singular uneasiness. Love? Surely he knew the meaning of love? It was an ideal passion, like the lifting up of life in prayer. Had not his brother told him that perfect love was unattainable on this planet?—and was it not a word the very suggestions of which could only be expressed in music? These thoughts ran through his mind while he stood inert and wondering—then, rousing himself a little from the effects of Zaroba’s outburst, he sat down at the table, and, taking up a pencil, wrote as follows—
“You talk wildly, Zaroba—you cannot be well. Let me hear no more—you disturb my peace. I know what love is—I know what life is. But the best part of my life and love is not here,—but elsewhere.”
Zaroba took the paper from his hand, read it, and tore it to bits in a rage.