She arose and threw back her veil to wipe away the tears that burned her eyes. Suddenly she trembled, a deep blush overspreading her countenance. She saw the young kachef Youssouf coming up the walk. She saw his proud, erect figure, his countenance full of youthful freshness and nobility. She drew heir veil more closely about her; but the veil cannot hide the brightness of her eyes. They fairly sparkled as he advanced. He approached slowly. She seemed not to see him, leaned back on her cushions, raised the crimson rose to her face, and inhaled its fragrance. Kachef Youssouf, his arms folded on his breast, stood at the entrance of the kiosk. "Sitta Nefysseh, mistress, you command to have your carriage ready, as you wished to drive out at this hour. It is ready, and I humbly ask if it is your pleasure to go now, and if I may have the honor of accompanying your suite, and riding at the side of your carriage?" Sitta Nefysseh, who was still inhaling the fragrance of the rose, slowly let fall her hand to her side, and the flower fell from her fingers to the ground. "You are an attentive, punctual servant," said she. "I thank you; I will drive out at once with two of my women; you may ride beside my carriage." Sitta Nefysseh arose and left the kiosk. She passed close by him, and her white veil lightly touched Youssouf's shoulder. He stood as if touched by a magic wand and fixed to the spot. He could not follow his mistress, who walked proudly toward the place where the women awaited her. He followed her with his eyes, however, and saw how her long flowing garment adjusted itself to her lovely figure, and how her white veil fluttered about her noble head, enveloping it as with a delicate white cloud. "Would that I were the wind that kisses your cheek!" murmured he, lost in contemplation of his idol. "Would I were the sand your foot blesses with its touch! To die near you, beholding you in death, were heavenly bliss." Sitta Nefysseh had disappeared behind the clump of bushes. Kachef Youssouf still stood before the kiosk. He listened. The music had ceased. He knew that his mistress was returning with her women to the house. He hastily glanced around the garden, fastening his large, black eyes, on every bush, as if expecting to find an enemy concealed there. No one is to be seen. Only Heaven and the bees in the air see Youssouf as he rushes into the kiosk, picks up the rose, presses it passionately to his lips, and then conceals it in his bosom. CHAPTER XI THE COUNCIL OF WAR.