Woe to them who know
nothing more of love, woe to them who bear a cold heart in their
bosom.' This you sang, Sitta Nefysseh, and I stood listening,
entranced. What I then felt was so all-absorbing, so divinely
beautiful, that I was unwilling to have the harmony of that sweet
moment broken in upon by the voice of man. I silently withdrew; your
song informed me that Mourad slept and was in heavenly bliss. I
noiselessly left the tent, and stepped out into the night. The moon
shed its soft light around, enveloping the white tents scattered
over the plain and the terrors of the day in a heavenly, silver
veil.
"I did not return to my tent that night, however. Where was I? If
you should ask, Sitta Nefysseh, I could not tell you. But this much
I can tell you, I was in paradise! I thought of this when I just now
heard your slaves sing the song I then heard for the first time, and
that has resounded in my heart ever since. I covered it with thick
veils, and laid my hand on it to silence it: and I found it possible
to do so while my noble friend Mourad still lived. I forced my heart
to bury in its depths its wishes and longings. I have been silent,
Sitta Nefysseh, not only while Mourad lived, but I have also honored
the period allotted to a widow's mourning. But this is now passed;
pain has vanisbed from your heart, I trust. Your heavenly
countenance is again radiant with youthful loveliness, and no longer
shows the traces of sorrow.
Pages:
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435