“I am tempted!”
“I plead, Salim—I, Khalil Khayyat, the poet, the philosopher—I plead!”
“I may not share this great poem, Khalil,” said Salim Awad, commanding himself, “save with such as have suffered as I have suffered.”
“Then,” answered Khalil Khayyat, triumphantly, “the half is mine!”
“Is yours, Khalil?”
“The very half, Salim, is the inheritance of my woe!”
“Khalil,” answered Salim Awad, rising, “attend!” He smiled, in the way of youth upon the aged, and put an affectionate hand on the old man’s shoulder. “My song,” said he, passionately, “may not be uttered; for in all the world—since of these accidents God first made grief—there has been no love-sorrow like my despair!”
Then, indeed, Khalil Khayyat knew that this same Salim Awad was a worthy poet. And he was content; for he had known a young man to take of the woe from his own heart and fashion a love-song too sublime for revelation to the unfeeling world—which was surely poetry sufficient to the day. He asked no more concerning the song, but took counsel with Salim Awad upon his journey to Newfoundland, whither the young poet was going, there in trade and travel to ease the sorrows of love. And he told him many things about money and a pack, and how that, though engaged in trade, a man might still journey with poetry; the one being of place and time and necessity, and the other of the free and infinite soul. Concerning the words spoken that night in farewell by these poets, not so much as one word is known, though many men have greatly desired to know, believing the moment to have been propitious for high speaking; but not a word is to be written, not so much as a sigh to be described, for the door was closed, and, as it strangely chanced, there was no ear at the key-hole. But Nageeb Fiani, the greatest player in all the world, entering upon the departure of Salim Awad, was addressed by Khalil Khayyat.
“Nageeb,” said this great poet, “I have seen a minstrel go forth upon his wandering.”
“Upon what journey does the singer go, Khalil?”