Of her very self you see
nothing except the dark, luminous eyes that stare against your
face, and the tips of the painted fingers depending like rose-buds
from out of the blank bastions of the fortress. She turns, and
turns again, and carefully glances around her on all sides, to see
that she is safe from the eyes of Mussulmans, and then suddenly
withdrawing the yashmak, {6} she shines upon your heart and soul
with all the pomp and might of her beauty. And this, it is not the
light, changeful grace that leaves you to doubt whether you have
fallen in love with a body, or only a soul; it is the beauty that
dwells secure in the perfectness of hard, downright outlines, and
in the glow of generous colour. There is fire, though, too--high
courage and fire enough in the untamed mind, or spirit, or whatever
it is, which drives the breath of pride through those scarcely
parted lips.
You smile at pretty women--you turn pale before the beauty that is
great enough to have dominion over you. She sees, and exults in
your giddiness; she sees and smiles; then presently, with a sudden
movement, she lays her blushing fingers upon your arm, and cries
out, "Yumourdjak!" (Plague! meaning, "there is a present of the
plague for you!") This is her notion of a witticism.
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