What I saw was first a glow of yellow green, then a mass of blossoms, then a throat, chin and face, one after another, all veiled in a gossamer thin as a spider’s web, and last—­and these I shall never forget —­a pair of eyes shining clear below and above the veil, and which gazed into mine with the same steady, full, unfrightened look one sometimes sees on the face of a summer moon when it bursts through a rift in the clouds.

“Don’t move and don’t look,” whispered Joe in my ear, a tone in his voice of one who had just seen a ghost.  “Allah!  Ekber!  Yuleima!”

“Who is she?” I answered, craning my neck to see the closer.

“No speak now—­keep still,” he mumbled under his breath.

It may have been the gossamer veil shading a rose skin, making pink pearls of the cheeks and chin and lending its charm to the other features; or it may have been the wonderful eyes that made me oblivious of Joe’s warning, for I did look—­looked with all my eyes, and kept on looking.

Men have died for just such eyes.  Even now, staid old painter as I am, the very remembrance of their wondrous size—­big as a young doe’s and as pleading, their lids fringed by long feathery lashes that opened and shut with the movement of a tired butterfly—­sends little thrills of delight scampering up and down my spine.  Bulbuls, timid gazelles, perfumed narghilehs, anklets of beaten gold strung with turquoise, tinkling cymbals, tiny turned-up slippers with silk tassels on their toes—­everything that told of the intoxicating life of the East were mirrored in their unfathomed depths.

Most of these qualities, I am aware, are found in many another pair of lambent, dreamy eyes half-hidden by the soft folds of a yashmak—­eyes which these houris often flash on some poor devil of a giaour, knowing how safe they are and how slim his chance for further acquaintance.  Strange tales are told of their seductive power and strange disappearances take place because of them.  And yet I saw at a glance that there was nothing of all this in her wondering gaze.  Her eyes, in fact, were fixed neither on Joseph nor on me, nor did they linger for one instant on the beautiful mosque.  It was my canvas that held their gaze.  Men and mosques were old stories; pictures of either as astounding as a glimpse into heaven.

Again Joe bent his head and whispered to me, his glance this time on the mosque, on the hill, on the cafe, where Yusuf sat sipping his coffee, talking to me all the time out of the corner of his mouth.

“Remember, effendi, if Yusuf come we go way chabouk.  You look at your picture all time—­paint—­ no look at her.  If Yusuf come and catch us it make trouble for her—­make trouble for you—­make more trouble for me.  Police Pasha don’t know she come to this garden—­I think somebody must help her.  You better stop now and go cafe.  I find Yusuf.  I no like this place.”

With this Hornstog rose to his feet and began packing the trap, still whispering, his eyes on the ground.  Never once did he look in the direction of the houri peering through the sliding panel.