“And from this,” asked Khalil Khayyat, cruel servant of art, being hopeful concerning the issue, “there has come a great poem? There must,” he muttered, “have come a love-song, a heart’s cry in comfort of such as have lost at love.”
Salim Awad looked up from the table.
“A cry of patient anguish,” said Khalil Khayyat.
“Khalil,” said Salim Awad, solemnly, “the strings of my soul have been touched by the hand of the Spirit.”
“By the Spirit?”
“The fingers of Infinite Woe.”
To this Khalil Khayyat made no reply, nor moved one muscle—save that his hand trembled a little, and his eyes, which had been steadfastly averted, suddenly searched the soul of Salim Awad. It was very still in the little back room. There was the sputtering of the gas, the tread of soft feet passing in haste to the kitchen, the clamor from the outer room, where common folk were gathered for their pleasure, but no sound, not so much as the drawing of breath, in the little room where these poets sat, and continued in this silence, until presently Khalil Khayyat drew very close to Salim Awad.
“Salim,” he whispered, “reveal this poem.”
“It cannot be uttered,” said Salim Awad.
Khalil Khayyat was by this amazed. “Is it then so great?” he asked. “Then, Salim,” said he, “let it be as a jewel held in common by us of all the world.”