'I would rather see a faint light in your eyes, as of a star rising in the desert than hear the blessings of all the men of Nejed. I would rather that your hand were cold when it touches mine, and your cheek hot when I kiss it, than that your father should bestow upon me all the treasures of Riad.' 'Is that love?' asked Zehowah with a laugh. 'A cold hand, a hot cheek, a bright eye?' Khaled was silent, for he saw that she understood his words but not his meaning. It was now noon and it was very hot, even in the inner shade of the harem, and Khaled was glad to rest after the hard fighting, for his many slight wounds smarted with the healing balsam, and his heart was heavy and discontented. Then Zehowah called a slave woman to fan him with a palm leaf, and presently she brought him meat and rice and dates to eat, and cool drink in a golden cup, and she sat at his feet while he refreshed himself. 'How many did you slay with your own hand?' she asked at last, taking up the good sword which lay beside him on the carpet. CHAPTER IV Khaled pondered deeply, being uncertain what to do, and trying to find out some action which could win for him what he wanted. Zehowah received no answer to her question as to the number of enemies he had slain and she did not ask again, for she thought that he was weary and wished to rest in silence. 'What do you like best in the whole world?' he asked after a long time, to see what she would say. 'I like you best,' she answered, smiling, while she still played with his sword. 'That is very strange,' Khaled answered, musing. But the colour rose darkly in his cheeks above his beard, for he was pleased now as he had been displeased before. 'Why is it strange?' asked Zehowah. 'Are you not the palm tree in my plain, and a tower of refuge for my people?' 'And will you dry up the well from which the tree draws life, and take away the corner-stone of the tower's foundation?' 'You speak in fables,' said Zehowah, laughing. 'Yet you imagined the fable yourself, when you likened me to a palm and to a tower. But I am no lover of allegories. The sword is my argument, and my wit is in my arm. The wall by the tree is the wall of love, and the chief foundation of the tower is the love of Zehowah. If you destroy that, the tree will wither and the tower will fall.' 'Surely there was never such a man as you,' Zehowah answered, half jesting but half in earnest. 'You are as one who has bought a white mare; and though she is fleet, and good to look at, and obedient to his voice and knee, yet he is discontented because she cannot speak to him, and he would fain have her black instead of white, and if possible would teach her to sing like a Persian nightingale.' 'Is it then not natural in a woman to love man? Have you heard no tales of love from the story-tellers of the harem?' 'I have heard many such tales, but none of them were told of me,' Zehowah replied. 'Will you drink again? Is the drink too sweet, or is it not cool?'