I nodded an affirmative.
“Tell me about her. Who is she?” he inquired, looking straight into my eyes.
For a few moments I remained silent. Then, returning his steadfast gaze, I answered—
“I love Zoraida!”
“Zoraida!” he cried, starting up. “Surely you don’t mean the woman of the Ennitra, known as Daughter of the Sun?”
“The same,” I replied. “You may laugh, sneer, tell me I am a dreamer, dazzled by the glitter and splendour of an Eastern court, fascinated by a pair of kohl-darkened eyes and a forehead hung with sequins, but, nevertheless, the fact remains that she and I love each another.”
“It seems impossible,” he said. “You have actually looked upon her unveiled, and spoken with her, then?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because it is death to an Infidel to either look upon her countenance or seek to address her. While a prisoner in Hadj Absalam’s palace, I heard most extraordinary things regarding her. The terrible story was told me how, on one occasion, three Chasseurs, held captive by the old robber, had, by the purest accident, discovered her passing unveiled from the court of the palace guards into the harem. Amazed at her extraordinary beauty, they stood gazing at her, but those looks of admiration cost them their lives. Their gaze, it was alleged, had polluted her, and within an hour their heads were smote off and their bodies thrown to the dogs.”
“Then you have never seen her?”