It is a clear, starry
night, and Butheita's eyes are accustomed to darkness, and see as
well at night as in the daytime. She gazes down upon his
countenance, and a sunny smile illumines her features. He sees her
not; his eyes are still blinded; neither can he speak yet, he can
only breathe more freely, and he eagerly inhales the fresh night
air.
"Handsome is the stranger," said she, in a voice of wondrous
sweetness. "Already a sarechsme, and still so young! I supposed my
father had brought me an old gray-beard, and it had distressed me to
torment you so, and now I see a strong young hero, and I feel doubly
distressed at your being the prisoner of a poor girl."
He looks up, and now he sees the fair face with its starlike eyes
sparkling down upon him. The night is clear, and the yellow sand
whirled aloft by the camel's feet imparts a golden lustre to the
atmosphere; the appearance of the horizon also announces that the
rosy dawn is about to contend with the starry night. Mohammed sees
the lovely countenance with its brown tint, and its large black eyes
and crimson lips, disclosing, as they now smile, her pearly teeth.
"Pity me not, Butheita," murmured he. "To be the prisoner of a man
would put the sarechsme to shame; but to be the prisoner of a houri
of paradise, who holds him in sweet captivity, is, it seems to me,
an enviable lot."
"You speak prettily, O stranger," said she, her countenance beaming
with delight.
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