"Know, O lady, that we Spaniards are not like the Moslems of the East; we do not hide our wives and daughters in prison houses. To us marriage is born of true love, and he who would win love must be a poet; therefore all Andalusians are poets. Would you hear of the wooing of my mother? She was the daughter of the emir of Malaga, and on the day my father came to her father's court, he saw her in the gardens, dancing with her women; and his heart was as fire. Sleep left him. Three days he spent in sighs and sorrow, and on the fourth he stole under the garden wall and sang his passion: how she was lovelier than the Ez-Zahra, 'City of the Fairest'; her voice was sweeter than the murmur of the Guadalquiver glancing in the sun; her eyes more beautiful than the stars when they twinkle in the lake, and a smile from her lips surpassed all wine. Then, on the next night as he sang, she answered him in like manner in verse; how her love was strong as the Berber lion; his white teeth more precious than pearls; his head more beautiful than garlands of roses; and his words cut her heart more keenly than cimeters of Murcia. So my father rejoiced, for he knew he had won; and went boldly to the emir and demanded his daughter in marriage."
"And what are the songs which your poets sing by the Guadalquiver and the Darro?" asked the princess.
"Ah, lady," answered Musa, dreamily, "no true poet can sing his love-song twice. See; I will wish myself back at Cordova, in the orange groves I love so well, and will sing as move the genii of song." And the Spaniard ran his hands over the echoing strings, and sang in low, weird melody:—
"Sweet as the wind when it kisses the rose
Is thy breath!
Blest, if thy lips had but once on me smiled,
Would be death!
Give me the throat of the bulbul to sing
Forth thy praise:
Then wouldst thou drink the clear notes as they spring
All thy days!
Nard of far Oman's too mean for thy sweetness,
Eagle wings lag at thy glancing eyes' fleetness;
By thy pure beauty, bright gems lack completeness;
Lady, ah, fairest!
Were I a genie, with rapture I'd seize thee;
I'd haste away
To magic-wrought cavern, all jewelled and golden;
There I'd stay
While the long glad years with printless feet wheeling
Leave no trace,
Save only new beauty and soft love revealing
In thy face.
The speeding of ages would breed us no sorrow;
I'd shrink from no past, and dread naught of the morrow;
The laugh in thine eyes, that alone I would borrow,
Lady, ah, rarest!"
"Ai, Sir Musa," cried Mary, when the strings were still, "were you Louis de Valmont or even my Lord Iftikhar, I should say in my heart, 'How much you are my slave!' But to a Spaniard like yourself the making of such a song—it means nothing?"
"Nothing," answered the Andalusian, his dreamy eye wandering over the marble tracery on the wall above.
The emir broke forth hotly:—
"Wallah, you Spaniard, what mean then your pretty songs, your chatter of praise and compliment, if they are words, words, and nothing more? In the East, whence I come, we thrill, we feel, we make no shame to flame with a mighty passion. Aye, and make our deeds match our fine words."
Musa laid down the lute, and stared at the emir unconcernedly.
"My good lord," answered he, "do you not know that when I sing love, I sing not the love of any one lady? And think not I despise our princess—she is peerless among women. Rather I praise that divine essence which reveals itself in every bright eye and velvet cheek from east to west,—this pure beauty sent down from Paradise by the favor of Allah, I adore; and whenever I behold it, its praise I must sing."
"You are trained in the heathen philosophy of your schools of Cordova," retorted the emir; "I cannot follow your thought. To me it is better to have the taste of one cup of wine than be told of the sweetness of ten thousand. Enough; the Count requires me." And he arose to bow himself out.
Musa had arisen also, and courteously thrust his right hand in his breast, where he murmured the farewell, "Peace be on you."
Iftikhar's answer hung for a moment on his lips, then he gave the customary reply among Moslem friends, "And on you be peace, and the mercy of Allah and His blessings!"
Mary sighed when the emir was gone.
"You are not gay, dear lady," said the Spaniard; "if I can do aught to aid, command me."
Half petulantly the princess caught a sugared cake from the tray by the divan and threw it into the fountain, where the greedy fish in the basin waited.
"I should be very happy, should I not?" exclaimed she, with a laugh not very merry. "See, since I have come to Palermo, here are Richard Longsword and De Valmont with blades drawn on my account; the emir sighs like the west wind, and is all gloom and restlessness; and you, Sir Musa," she went on boldly, "were you to speak out your own heart, are wishing them all three dead, that you might have no rival. Holy Mother," added she, with half a sob, half a laugh, "I am too much loved! What am I, silly girl, that so many brave cavaliers should pawn their souls for my poor sake!"
"Sweet mistress," replied the Spaniard, very slowly, flinging a second cake into the fountain, "you are wrong. Your friend, your admirer, I will ever be. Were we both Christian or Moslem, had I no memories of moon-lit nights and sun-lit orchards in Spain—but enough of that! Know that I am the sworn brother of Richard Longsword; that he loves you purely and honorably; that after the manner of his people he will become a great man, whom any lady, be she however high, might love to call her lord. And that you may smile on him, is my first and only prayer."
Mary's whole face crimsoned at this, for Musa was not now playing the poet. There was a ring of command in her voice when she made answer:—
"Sir Musa, I cannot have another say for them what Richard and Louis de Valmont may not say to my face. Let us await the tourney. Who knows lest your friend will woo no more after that day? I hear—God spare them both—that Louis is a terrible knight; he will ride against Longsword as though all the fiends were in him."
"They are in the hands of the Most High," said the Andalusian, still very gently; "yet, believe me, the Provençal may have ridden down many stout knights, and yet not the peer of Longsword. But—" and he in turn salaamed, "I have also to hasten. And perhaps even my presence is burdensome."
"No," cried the Greek, extending her hands, "come, come often; I have too many lovers, too few friends. My father sinks day by day; Christ pity me! I am alone in a strange land; I have borne myself foolishly. The beauty you sing of is half a curse. If truly you would be my friend, and nothing more, do not desert me. I am very wretched."
There were tears in her eyes; her voice choked a little, but she stood proud and steady, the great princess still.
Very low was the reverence paid by the Spaniard. He kissed the bright rug at her feet; then rising, answered:—
"Star of the Greeks, not you, but Allah who has put enchantment in your eyes, has bred this trouble, if trouble it be. But as for me, I swear it, by Allah the Great, you shall never call on me in vain!"
"You are a noble cavalier, Sir Musa," said the lady, now all dignity; "I thank you."
So the days went by, and it was the evening before the tourney. All around Palermo spread the tents, bright pavilions of silk with broad pennons above, whipping the slow south wind. The gardens of the Golden Shell buzzed with the clatter and hum of a thousand busy squires. In the city, every house—Christian, Moslem, or Jewish—was thrown open to guests. There were flags at every door and window; and within pealed the laughter of feasters, the note of viol and psaltery and tabor at