"If thou hast joy, share it with thy beloved, and thou wilt have so much the more. If thou hast grief, share it with thy beloved, and thou wilt have so much the less."
Banfi looked at the odalisk with beetling brows.
But Azrael struck fresh chords and began another song—
"False is the world and all that is therein! Every day the sun forsakes the sky. Every day the sea forsakes her shores. Every year the swallow forsakes her nest. But the maiden who loves never forsakes her beloved."
Still Banfi remained silent. There he sat with staring, bloodshot eyes, his head resting on his elbows, like a poor, mortally-wounded lion.
And again the odalisk sang—
"If choice were thine, which wouldst thou choose—love with hell, or heaven without love?"
Banfi stretched out his arms towards Azrael, and as the odalisk, casting away her mandolin, bent down to kiss his hand, he drew her to his breast, and the odalisk, softly stroking Banfi's forehead, said—
"What mean these wrinkles on thy noble brow, which I have never seen there before? Vainly do I charm them away with my kisses; they come back again and again. Wait!—I'll cover them with this diadem. So!—how well a kingly crown becomes thy brow!"
Banfi uttered an inarticulate cry, tore the diadem from his head, and hurled it far away, while with the other hand he roughly repulsed the girl. Every line of his face proclaimed his agony of mind. The odalisk looked into his face and could read there everything which had happened.