Attention is fastened upon these patient dumb creatures. At this, the young hostess—who, by the way, speaks Arabic, modern Greek, French, German, English; who interprets Chopin with appealing sympathy upon the piano in the beautiful drawing-room; and, upon occasion, picks her mandolin to light, minor-keyed melodies—decides that the American lady must have a ride about the garden.
Ismail, a dark-skinned boy who has haunted our footsteps in readiness for service, and whose eyes and teeth are marvels of brilliancy, leads forth the petted beast and tricks her out with the most gorgeous trappings. Then the visitor is wheedled into mounting the high, smooth saddle. This she does gingerly and sidewise, after the fashion of her countrywomen. The baby donkey is let out to enjoy a bit of exercise, and crowds so closely to the side [[8]]of his adored parent as nearly to crush the ankles of her nervous rider.
The white beasts trot placidly over the graveled walks of the quadrangle, and the pastime is growing pleasant to the rider. But “Faster! faster!” commands the young hostess. “It is not with this sleep of the day that we should seek to amuse one who comes from the Land of Haste! Faster! Ismail, faster!”
Time is not given in which to explain that a mild gait is preferred; for the Arab boy at once enters into the spirit of his mistress—strikes a resounding blow upon each snowy flank, with such immediate effect that the unaccustomed rider slides from her insecure position and joins in the merriment.
“Alas! the Orient has broken your spirit! It is not like this that in your own country you would ride. Think you that I do not know?”
Hastily arranging her flowing skirts, the young girl sprang gayly astride the high, polished saddle; leaned forward and whispered, “Away! Babash!” During the next few moments, shadow and sunlight became a swift kaleidoscope of gayety and color. The little animal, divining what was expected of her, broke into a gallop of whose madness one never would have dreamed her capable; and which made it most comical to witness the wild attempts of her [[9]]poor little foal at keeping pace, and his bewilderment when, after viewing, with despair, her disappearance before him, his astonished gaze discovered her hastening toward him from behind, only to leave him again, a little farther on.
Meantime the surly pelican had waddled to an unfrequented corner, where the gravel, flying from delicate hoofs, could not reach him. Madame, the elder hostess, came out upon the balcony, which extended along the second story of the dwelling, to wave her hand in enjoyment of the sport.
At length, wearied with making exhibition of the speed which, in her opinion, characterized the home life of her visitor, the young girl tossed her reins to Ismail, commanded that coffee be brought, then conducted to a beautiful summerhouse, or kiosk, where were cushions and rugs in profusion; where the most comfortable corner hid its hand mirror and rose-water sprinkler, and over whose lattice climbed roses and jessamine.
Of these latter flowers—so precious to every woman of the Orient—three were gathered and tucked into the visitor’s belt. “Three, the Oriental number: one for health, one for wealth, and one for prosperity. If I wish you these and to you they come, what is there more, that for it you should ask?” was the compelling explanation, made in a [[10]]voice that was music’s own in quality and, like her manner—when not merrily exemplifying prevailing notions of American life—was gentle as the most fastidious aristocrat could desire.
The air was sprayed with rose water; we reclined upon the cushions. Quiet restored, the Madame descended and joined us. Coffee was brought—though not at once; for the moments do not urge, as in the Occident; they weave themselves, unnoted, into slow and shining hours. Resting thus, and, later on, tasting the cream tart of whose deliciousness the half has never been told, it was inevitable that we should fall into the custom of the country and relate, each to the others, tales of our native lands.