It was soon ascertained that the gallant Mahomedan was the son of Beiram Chan, prime minister of Humayoon. This adventure naturally led to an intimacy; and young Beiram could not behold the beauty of the Pariah’s daughter without feeling his heart moved. He was young and handsome, full of generous impulses, though too apt to be driven by those impulses beyond the strict line of prudence. He was an object of admiration among the chief ladies of the Emperor’s court, yet he had not fixed his affections, though they had several times wavered between two or three Mahomedan beauties. The lovely Yhahil at once decided him. He had seen nothing among his own countrywomen to approach her transcendant loveliness; his resolution therefore was soon fixed to give them all up, and cleave to the charming stranger. This, however, occurred to his sober reflections as likely to involve him in considerable perplexity. It would never do for the son of a Mogul noble to ally himself with the daughter of an outcast, except by those temporary ties which may be ruptured at will; and, even upon any terms, it would not, he knew, receive the approbation of his family. He did not for a moment imagine that Yhahil would refuse the sort of alliance which he meant to propose to her, feeling conscious that he was not indifferent to her, and knowing, as she must do, the impassable barrier to a conjugal union between them. Their eyes had exchanged those glances which are the precursors of a declaration on the one hand, and of acceptance on the other; still he hesitated to avow himself, being unwilling hastily to rouse the indignation of his parent. Yhahil’s father and mother had observed the reciprocations of attachment which had been mutually manifested by their daughter and the Mogul minister’s son, and knowing the stern severity of virtue which governed all the actions of their beloved child they looked forward to her ratifying the conquest, which she had evidently made, by becoming the wife of a Mahomedan noble. “My girl,” said her father, as he one day embraced her with anxious tenderness, “I still hope to see my home blessed through you. You have, I trust, won a good man’s love.” “Of whom do you speak?” asked the daughter, with a fluttering heart. “The minister’s son.” “He has never avowed his passion.” “But it needs not the tongue’s avowal to confirm the evidence of a silent yet more credible expression that he loves thee. You will hear him declare himself before the horns of the next young moon meet. Tell me, Yhahil, do you love him?” “I do, father.” “Would you wed him?” “I never could love the man I would not wed, nor wed whom I could not love.” “I am satisfied.” The parents from this time looked anxiously for the Mahomedan’s declaration, but it came not, and they began to be impatient, though it was more than ever evident that he loved their child.