of tender hues:  it was a full globe of splendours, showing like a very kingdom of the Blest; and blessed was the eye beholding it!  So when he was within reach of her arm, the damsel sprang to him and caught from his hand the Jewel, and held it before her eyes, and danced with it, and pressed it on her bosom, and was as a creature giddy with great joy in possessing it.  And she put the Jewel in her bosom, and looked on the youth to thank him for the Jewel with all her beauty; for the passion of a mighty pride in him who had won for her the Jewel exalted Bhanavar, and she said sweetly, ’Now hast thou proved to me thy love of me, and I am thine, O my betrothed,—­wholly thine.  Kiss me, then, and cease not kissing me, for bliss is in me.’

But the youth eyed her sorrowfully, even as one that hath great yearning, and no power to move or speak.

So she said again, in the low melody of deep love-tones, ’Kiss me, O my lover! for I desire thy kiss.’

Still he spake not, and was as a pillar of stone.

And she started, and cried, ‘Thou art whole? without a hurt?’ Then sought she to coax him to her with all the softness of her half-closed eyes and budded lips, saying, ’’Twas an idle fear! and I have thee, and thou art mine, and I am thine; so speak to me, my lover! for there is no music like the music of thy voice, and the absence of it is the absence of all sweetness, and there is no pleasure in life without it.’

So the tenderness of her fondling melted the silence in him, and presently his tongue was loosed, and he breathed in pain of spirit, and his words were the words of the proverb: 

   He that fighteth with poison is no match for the prick of a thorn.

And he said, ’Surely, O Bhanavar, my love for thee surpasseth what is told of others that have loved before us, and I count no loss a loss that is for thy sake.’  And he sighed, and sang: 

     Sadder than is the moon’s lost light,
      Lost ere the kindling of dawn,
      To travellers journeying on,

     The shutting of thy fair face from my sight. 
      Might I look on thee in death,
      With bliss I would yield my breath.

     Oh! what warrior dies
     With heaven in his eyes? 
     O Bhanavar! too rich a prize! 
      The life of my nostrils art thou,
      The balm-dew on my brow;

   Thou art the perfume I meet as I speed o’er the plains,
   The strength of my arms, the blood of my veins.

Then said he, ’I make nothing matter of complaint, Allah witnesseth! not even the long parting from her I love.  What will be, will be:  so was it written!  ’Tis but a scratch, O my soul! yet am I of the dead and them that are passed away.  ‘Tis hard; but I smile in the face of bitterness.’