They were singing in the street—a riot of Irish lads, tenement-born; tramping noisily past the door of Nageeb Fiani’s pastry-shop to Battery Park. And Khalil Khayyat sat musing deeply, his ears closed to the alien song, while distance mellowed the voices, changed them to a vagrant harmony, made them one with the mutter of Washington Street; for there had come to him a great thought—a vision, high, glowing, such as only poets may know—concerning love and the infinite pain; and he sought to fashion the thought: which must be done with tender care in the classic language, lest it suffer in beauty or effect being uttered in haste or in the common speech of the people. Thus he sat: low in his chair, his head hanging loose, his eyes jumping, his brown, wrinkled face fearfully working, until every hair of his unshaven beard stood restlessly on end. And Salim Awad, looking up, perceived these throes: and thereby knew that some prophetic word was immediately to be spoken. “They who lose at love,” Khayyat muttered, “must.... They who lose at love....” “Khalil!” The Language Beautiful was for once perverse. The words would not come to Khalil Khayyat. He gasped, tapped the table with impatient fingers—and bent again to the task. “They who lose at love....” “Khalil!” Salim Awad’s voice was plaintive. “What must they do, O Khalil,” he implored, “who lose at love? Tell me, Khalil! _What must they do?_” “They who lose at love.... They who lose at love must.... They who lose at love must ... seek....” “Speak, O Khalil, concerning those wretched ones! And they must seek?” Khayyat laughed softly. He sat back in the chair—proudly squared his shoulders. “And now I know!” he cried, in triumph. He cleared his throat. “They who lose at love,” he declaimed, “must seek....” He paused abruptly. There had been a warning in the young lover’s eyes: after all, in exceptional cases, poetry might not wisely be practised. “Come, Khalil!” Salim Awad purred. “They who lose at love? What is left for them to do?” “Nay,” answered Khalil Khayyat, looking away, much embarrassed, “I will not tell you.” Salim caught the old man’s wrist. “What is the quest?” he cried, hoarsely, bending close. “I may not tell.” Salim’s fingers tightened; his teeth came together with a snap; his face flushed—a quick flood of red, hot blood. “What is the quest?” he demanded. “I dare not tell.” “The quest?” “I _will_ not tell!”