“Zahra!  ‘Flower of the World,’” he repeated, wonderingly.  After an instant he continued, harshly, “Then you are the daughter of the Moor?”

“Yes.  Abul Malek.  You have heard of me?”

“Who has not?  Aye, you were rightly called ‘Flower of the World.’  But—­this music!  It brought me here against my will; it pulls at me like straining horses.  Why is that?  What wizardry do you possess?  What strange chemistry?”

She laughed lightly.  “I possess no magic art.  We are akin, you and I. That is all.  You, of all men, are attuned to me.”

“No,” he said, heavily.  “You are an Infidel, I am a Christian.  There is no bond between us.”

“So?” she mocked.  “And yet, when I sing, you can hear the nightingales of Aden; I can take you with me to the fields of battle, or to the innermost halls of the Alhambra.  I have watched you many times, Brother Joseph, and I have never failed to play upon your soul as I play upon my own.  Are we not, then, attuned?”

“Your veil!” he cried, accusingly.  “I have never beheld a Moorish woman’s face until now.”

Her lids drooped, as if to hide the fire behind them, and she replied, without heeding his words:  “Sit here, beside me.  I will play for you.”

“Yes, yes!” he cried, eagerly.  “Play!  Play on for me!  But—­I will stand.”

Accordingly she resumed her instrument; and o’er its strings her rosy fingers twinkled, while with witchery of voice and beauty she enthralled him.  Again she sang of love, reclinging there like an houri fit to grace the paradise of her Prophet; and the giant monk became a puppet in her hands.  Now, although she sang of love, it was a different love from that which Joseph knew and worshiped; and as she toyed with him his hot blood warred with his priestly devotion until he was racked with the tortures of the pit.  But she would not let him go.  She lured him with her eyes, her lips, her luscious beauty, until he heard no song whatever, until he no longer saw visions of spiritual beatitude, but flesh, ripe flesh, aquiver and awake to him.

A cry burst from him.  Turning, he tore himself away and went crashing blindly through the thicket like a bull pursued.  On, on he fled, down to the monastery and into the coolness of his cell, where, upon the smooth, worn flags, he knelt and struggled with this evil thing which accursed his soul.

For many days Joseph avoided the spot which had witnessed his temptation; but of nights, when he lay spent and weary with his battle, through the grating of his window came the song of the Saracen maid and the whisper of her golden lute.  He knew she was calling to him, therefore he beat his breast and scourged himself to cure his longing.  But night after night she sang from the heights above, and the burden of her song was ever the same, of one who waited and of one who came.

Bit by bit she wore down the man’s resistance, then drew him up through the groves of citron and pomegrante, into the grape fields; time and again he fled.  Closer and closer she lured him, until one day he touched her flesh—­woman’s flesh—­and forgot all else.  But now it was her turn to flee.