“Hai—hai—hai!” exclaimed the princess, her words choked with gurgling, irrepressible laughter. “By the Prophet—art thou then in love with Al Nakia, old woman? Why—when thou speakest of him, thy eyes roll about like the tail of the water-wagtail, thy shriveled old lips pout to resemble ripe pomegranates, thy ancient, flat bosom heaves like the lotus-bud awakening to the winds of spring. Truly, Al Nakia will feel flattered when he hears that the happiness of all thy desires and the desires of all thy happiness are concentrated in the touch of his hand, the touch of his lips!”
“I am thinking of thee, Little Dream by the Gift of Thy Face,” gently rejoined the nurse, “and not of myself. What has an old witch like myself to do with love—what can a pig do with a rose bottle? But thou and he should mate, Little Moon of Fulfillment, thus finishing the old prophecy—the wooing of swords!”
Aziza Nurmahal shook her head.
“I like him well,” she said softly, “but I do not love him. Love is a question—but one cannot force the answer to it. Love is a lampless pilgrim, wandering through the black night—and looking for the moon-rays that never come. Love is a drifting in the stream of vague, sweet things—a stretching of longing arms at the shadowy fringe of the never-to-be!”
“Melancholy thoughts for the heart of a babe,” said Ayesha Zemzem.
And, like many another girl, before and since, East and West, the princess whispered, with a distinct note of not at all distressing self-pity:
