“Speak, O Khalil, concerning those wretched ones! And they must seek?”
Khayyat laughed softly. He sat back in the chair—proudly squared his shoulders. “And now I know!” he cried, in triumph. He cleared his throat. “They who lose at love,” he declaimed, “must seek....” He paused abruptly. There had been a warning in the young lover’s eyes: after all, in exceptional cases, poetry might not wisely be practised.
“Come, Khalil!” Salim Awad purred. “They who lose at love? What is left for them to do?”
“Nay,” answered Khalil Khayyat, looking away, much embarrassed, “I will not tell you.”
Salim caught the old man’s wrist. “What is the quest?” he cried, hoarsely, bending close.
“I may not tell.”
Salim’s fingers tightened; his teeth came together with a snap; his face flushed—a quick flood of red, hot blood.
“What is the quest?” he demanded.
“I dare not tell.”
“The quest?”