On the following day Ammalat was allowed to see the convalescent.  Sultan Akhmet Khan, seeing that it was impossible to obtain a coherent answer from him while suspense tortured his heart, that heart which boiled with passion, yielded to his incessant entreaties.  “Let all rejoice when I rejoice,” he said, as he led his guest into his daughter’s room.  This had been previously announced to Seltanetta, but her agitation, nevertheless, was very great, when her eyes met those of Ammalat—­Ammalat, so deeply loved, so long and fruitlessly expected.  Neither of the lovers could pronounce a word, but the ardent language of their looks expressed a long tale, imprinted in burning letters on the tablet of their hearts.  On the pale cheek of each other they read the traces of sorrow, the tears of separation, the characters of sleeplessness and grief, of fear and of jealousy.  Entrancing is the blooming loveliness of an adored mistress; but her paleness, her languor, that is bewitching, enchanting, victorious!  What heart of iron would not be melted by that tearful glance, which, without a reproach, says so tenderly to you, “I am happy, but I have suffered by thee and for thy sake?”

Tears dropped from Ammalat’s eyes; but remembering at length that he was not alone, he mastered himself, and lifted up his head to speak; but his voice refused to pour itself in words, and with difficulty he faltered out, “We have not seen each other for a long time, Seltanetta!”

“And we were wellnigh parted for ever,” murmured Seltanetta.

“For ever!” cried Ammalat, with a half reproachful voice.  “And can you think, can you believe this?  Is there not, then, another life, in which sorrow is unknown, and separation from our kinsmen and the beloved?  If I were to lose the talisman of my life, with what scorn would I not cast away the rusty ponderous armour of existence!  Why should I wrestle with destiny?”

“Pity, then, that I did not die!” answered Seltanetta, sportively.  “You describe so temptingly the other side of the grave, that one would be eager to leap into it.”

“Ah, no!  Live, live long, for happiness, for—­love!” Ammalat would have added, but he reddened, and was silent.

Little by little the roses of health spread over the cheeks of the maiden, now happy in the presence of her lover.  All returned into its customary order.  The Khan was never weary of questioning Ammalat about the battles, the campaigns, the tactics of the Russians; the Khansha tired him with enquiries about the dress and customs of their women, and could not omit to call upon Allah as often as she heard that they go without veils.  But with Seltanetta he enjoyed conversations and tales, to his, as well as her, heart’s content.  The merest trifle which had the slightest connexion with the other, could not be passed over without a minute description, without abundant repetitions and exclamations.  Love, like Midas, transforms every thing it touches into gold, and, alas! often perishes, like Midas, for want of finding some material nourishment.