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“I go,” said Shems-ud-dìn curtly, and stepped forth once more into the sunlight.

That night, as he sat with Hassan in the house, the latter mocked at his grave looks.

“Art still vexed about thy brother’s little stratagem? Let not that trouble thee. It is war, thou understandest. The Bedû will take vengeance for this, and we, in turn, shall avenge their vengeance, and so it will go on—in sh’ Allah—till the last day.”

“My thought is not of war,” said Shems-ud-dìn. “Know, O Hassan, that I love once more!” And he related his adventure with the old sheykh’s daughter. “O her eyes! O her straight white nose! O the fullness of her cheeks, her chin!... Now tell me, what character does she bear?”

“Thou wouldst not wed her, surely?”

“I love—that is enough. My life flows out to her. There is but one beloved!”

“Ma sh’ Allah!” murmured Hassan, in the utmost consternation. “She is a girl like another. There is nothing told of her. A virgin has no form, no color, no fire, save that one gives to her. For me she is nothing; for thee, much. As for character, she has none, which means she is a young girl.... But reflect, O my dear! When thou returnest to Istanbûl——”