Part 8 (1/2)

I will wed no maiden of high degree With the tips of her fingers henna-stained And the dew of youth from her life-blood drained, But a child of nature wild and free.”

Then the slave bent low and said: ”O Sire, A woman lingers beside the gate; Her eyes are aglow like coals of fire And she mourns as one disconsolate; And when we bid her to cease and go, Each eye grows bright, like an evening star, And she sayeth: 'The master will hear my woe, For I come from the deserts of Khandakar.'”

”Bid her to enter,” the master said, And the frown from his forehead swiftly fled.

The hasty word on his lip way stayed As he thought of his youth, in the land afar, And the peerless eyes of a Bedouin maid, In the desert places of Khandakar.

The woman entered and swift unwound The veil that mantled her face around, And in matchless beauty, she stood arrayed, In the scant attire of a Bedouin maid.

The indolent lord of Ispahan Started back on the silk divan, For in form and feature, in very truth, It seemed the love of his early youth.

The almond eyes and the midnight hair, The rosebud mouth and the rounded chin-- Time had not touched them; they still were fair, And the pa.s.sion of yore grew strong within.

Then she made him the secret Bedouin sign, Which only dishonor can fail to heed; The solemn pact of the races nine, To help each other in time of need.

But her eyes beheld no answering sign, Though a crimson tide to his forehead ran, And the trembling maiden could not divine The will of the lord of Ispahan.

With the sound of a rippling mountain brook, The voice of the woman her lips forsook; And thus her tale of despair began In the lordly palace of Ispahan:

”On a stallion black as the midnight skies, From a desert I come, where my lover lies At death's dark verge; and the hostile clan That struck him down, are in Ispahan With slaves to sell, in the open street; And only because my steed was fleet Am I now free; but here I bide, For this morning the hard-rid stallion died.

Out of your opulence, one swift steed Only a drop from the sea will be; A grain of sand on the sh.o.r.e, to my need; But the wealth of the whole, wide world to me.

My soul to the soul of my loved one cries, At dawn or in darkness, whate'er betide, And the pain of longing all peace denies, To the heart that strains to my lover's side.”

”You shall mourn no more, but sit with me And rejoice in a scene of revelry; For the pleasures of life are the rights of man,”

Said the indolent lord of Ispahan.

The curtains parted and noiseless feet Of dusky slaves stole over the floor.

Their strong arms laden with burden sweet Of fruits and flowers a goodly store.

Luscious peaches and apricots, Plucked from the sunniest garden spots; Syrian apples and cordials rare; Succulent grapes that filled the air With heavy sweetness, while rivers ran, From beakers of wine from Astrakhan; Cooling salvers of colored ice; Almonds powdered with fragrant spice; Smoking viands, on plates of gold, And carven vessels of price untold, Kindling the appet.i.te afresh For dainty morsels of fowl and flesh.

The musical notes of the mellow flute, From a source remote, rose higher and higher, With the quivering sounds from a hidden lute, The plaintive sweep of the tender lyre.

Then a whirlwind of color filled the air-- A misty vapor of filmy lace, With gleams of silk and of round arms bare, In a mazy whirl of infinite grace; And the l.u.s.trous glow of tresses blent With the s.h.i.+mmer of pearls, from the Orient.

The half-sobbed, breathless, sweet refrain, A swelling burst of sensuous sound, Sank lower to swell and sink again, Then died in silence most profound.

The panting beauties with cheeks aglow, Scattered about on the rug-strewn floor, Like bright-hued leaves when the chill winds blow, Or tinted sea-sh.e.l.ls along the sh.o.r.e.

But the lord of the palace turned and cried; ”Heavy and languid these maidens are.”

And he said, to the Bedouin at his side: ”Teach them the dances of Khandakar.”

Her dark eyes lit with the flash of fire, And she said: ”You will pity my need most dire?

You will give me steed to fly afar, To my love in the deserts of Khandakar?”

”Half that I own shall be yours,” he said, ”If the love of my youth that was under ban Comes back to me like a soul from the dead Bringing joy to the palace of Ispahan.”

She sprang to the floor with an agile bound.

The music broke in a swirl of sound, Her hair from its fillet became unbound.

And the dancing-girls that stood apart, Gazed rapt and speechless, with hand to heart, At the wild, untrammelled curves of grace Of the dancing-girl from the desert race.

Not one of them half so fair to see; Not one as lithe in the sinuous twist Of twirling body and bending knee, Of supple ankle and curving wrist.

The wilder the music, the wilder she; It seemed like the song of a bird set free To thrill in the heart of a cloud of mist And live on its own mad ecstasy.

Spellbound and mute, on the silk divan, Sat the lord of the palace of Ispahan.