my cherished flowers.’ ‘Splendid flower of the world,’ replied the Count, ‘before whose wondrous beauty, the brightest gem is pale, a word from thee rejoices the soul of thy slave, who bears his captivity with gladuess if thou but esteem him worthy of thy commands.’ Melechaala, who awaited not an answer, was astonished to hear such flattering speech coming from a slave, and regarding closely the noble features of the still youthful Count, the veil alone concealed the blush which tinged her maiden cheek. She gave some trifling orders, and resumed her walk. The following day her visit was renewed. Insensibly the pure and innocent breast of the Eastern maid beat with undefined sentiments of tender admiration of the noble Frank. She foresaw not the danger of these oft-repeated visits, but without reserve she passed her morning hours in conversing with the Count, who, though bold and daring in the fight, before this artless girl was timid as the dove; nor had he the most remote idea of the feelings with which he had inspired her gentle bosom. Chance disclosed the secret. ’Twas a lovely evening. The rays of the setting sun illumined with purple splendour the mosques and cupolas of Grand Cairo. Melechsala conversed with the Count, twining in tasteful order a bunch of fresh gathered flowers, when, following the impulse
