“No, no, it is not she,” said Hassan impatiently.
The Khanum then proceeded to name one or two others, giving a slight sketch of their features and appearance. But the same “No, no” broke from the impatient Hassan. She was sorely puzzled; for supposing that Hassan had by some accident caught a glimpse of one of the young slaves while attending the Pasha’s wives to the bath or to some visit, the idea of her young mistress, who had not once left the harem since Hassan’s arrival, never entered her head.
“I fear, Hassan, that I cannot help you. Methinks you must have seen some stranger coming to visit at our harem, for I have named all those who are young and attractive within our walls. Cannot you describe her in such a way as to assist my conjecture?”
“Describe her!” said Hassan, lowering his voice to a tremulous whisper. “Every feature, every look, every hair of her head is written in my heart!” He then proceeded to describe the features, the eyes, the looks, the complexion, the hair, with such accurate fidelity that Fatimeh, fairly thrown off her guard, exclaimed—
“Allah! Allah! it is Amina Khanum, our Pasha’s daughter!”
“Amina!” cried Hassan. “Thrice blessed name,[[62]] henceforth thou art the locked treasure of my breast. I thank thee, Khanum, for giving me the beloved name to think of by day and to dream of by night.”
“Are you mad?” said the Khanum, wringing her hands in agitation and distress. “Do you remember your own position, and who the Lady Amina is? Do you know that the highest and proudest in the land have sued for her hand in vain?”
“I know,” said Hassan with deep feeling. “I know who I am—that I am a poor unknown orphan, without name, without fortune. It is the love that I bear to Amina, not the thought that she is a pasha’s daughter, which prompts me to bow my head and kiss the dust on which she treads. Were she a slave-girl in the harem my worship of her would be still the same. It is herself, her own pure image—not her station or her jewels—that I treasure in my heart of hearts. You say that her hand has been sought by the great and the rich. What are they,” he added, drawing himself proudly up, “that I may not become? Pashas and beys, forsooth—what were they at my age?—‘Mamelukes,’ ‘pipe-bearers,’ and so forth. What was Mohammed Ali at twenty? Let the proudest and the best of them stand forth before me with sword and lance and prove who best deserves her. Will they climb for her as I would to the highest summits of the Kaf?[[63]] Will they dive for her as I would to the lowest depths of ocean? Will they live for her, toil for her, bleed for her, die for her, as I would? My kind aunt,” he added in a low and pleading tone, “have pity on me, speak to Amina for me; tell her that Hassan’s heart is in her hand, and that it is only for her that he lives and breathes.”
“Alas! alas!” said the kind-hearted Khanum, moved by the young man’s earnest passion. “What misfortune has befallen? There is no refuge but in God, the compassionate. I pity you, Hassan, with all my heart; but you know that I dare not speak to Amina on such a subject. I am the guardian and protector of her youth, and I can name to her no suitor who does not appear with her father’s sanction. Surely she can have no knowledge or thought of this insane passion?” she added in a tone of inquiry.
“I know not,” replied Hassan confusedly. “It seems to me that she has been in my heart and in my dreams from my earliest youth; her image is interwoven with my being, with my destiny; it floats in the very air I breathe, impregnating it with sweetness and with life. I know not ‘whether the zephyrs and the spirit of dreams have wafted the odour of my vows to the pillow on which the roses of her cheek repose.’”[[64]]