"
Without awaiting a reply, she took down the little bagpipe with its
bag of goat-skin, and to its shrill accompaniment sang a quaint
love-song with an admixture of the comic.
Her countenance had become grave, and a sweet fire burned in her
eyes, while singing to the monotonous air in a shrill, vibrating
voice, as was customary with the street-singers of the Egyptian
towns. When she had finished her song, she turned the gaze of her
dark eyes upon Mohammed with an inquiring expression. When she saw
the smile on his countenance, and encountered the wondrous glance
that seemed to penetrate to her very soul, she stated. "It pleases
you," said she. "I read in your countenance that you are pleased.
Then I will sing you another song."
She took up her instrument again, and sang, in loud, joyous tones, a
song about a gazelle-like maiden who had run away with her lover's
soul, concluding with,
"Throughout the long, long night his sighing ceases not, his sighing
for the dear gazelle that stole away his soul. Have pity on your
lover; come back to me, gazelle. "
"Gazelle, come back to me! " cried Mohammed, with outstretched arms.
"Gazelle, have pity on your lover."
She seemed not to have heard him, bowed down over her instrument,
and played in such loud, shrill tones, that it almost deafened
Mohammed, who well understood Butheita's motive in playing so.
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