“Who is she?” And Abdul-asis rises softly, the better to observe her. “Yes, she is matchless, but that sadness is not natural. Her attitude, her movements are languid and full of pain. Her hands lie weary. She avoids her companions. What can it mean? Some tale of deep sorrow is shut up in her soul. She is under my roof and I am ignorant of her life. I will at once address her.” For some minutes he stood silent, his eyes wandering over the many beauties which disclosed themselves to his gaze; but to his astonishment, as he looked closer, he perceived from the dark olive of her skin that the stranger must be an Egyptian or a Moor. At last, moved by a singular emotion, he addressed her. “Who are you, gentle lady?” he asked, his naturally sweet voice tuned to its softest accents. “Why do you sit alone? Confide to me your grief.” “Death alone can end it,” was her reply. “Nay,” whispered Abdul-asis, in a voice melting with pity, “fair one, seek not to sacrifice that which Allah has made so perfect. The very sense of loveliness is yours. Let it be mine. As the houris of Paradise dwell under the shadow of the Great Angel’s wings, so, lady, shall you dwell under mine. I am Lord of Andalusia. Power is in my hands. Speak to me,” and he drew near and touched the tips of her henna-stained fingers. “Have faith in me.” If he had dared he would have clasped her to his heart. Never had the veiled fair ones of the harem moved him so. With his lustrous eyes fixed on hers he waited for an answer, or at least for some sign that she was not displeased. None came. Now this to Abdul-asis was a new development of woman which served only to heighten the ardour of his sudden passion. Opposition proverbially is a spur to love, and now the old axiom operated in full force upon one who had never known repulse. Again he assayed to clasp her delicate fingers within his own and gently draw her towards him. “Light of my life,” he murmured, “speak!” In vain--the lady replied only by her sobs. Nor was it in the power of Abdul-asis to make her speak. At length--was it the languid beauty of the night, the power of the moon, great in the annals of unspoken love, or some occult mystery communicated to her by his touch?--a rosy bloom rose on her dark cheeks and, withdrawing her hand from his ardent clasp, she suddenly unlocked the mystery of her coral lips. “I am Egilona,” she whispered, as if she feared to confide the name to the night air; “once wife of Don Roderich and Queen of Spain.” Words cannot paint the amazement of Abdul-asis. That the beautiful stranger, known to have become a captive after the defeat of the Guadalete, should be dwelling within his Alcazar, unknown to himself, seems too astonishing to comprehend! That he, too, unconsciously, should have presumed to approach her with the facile dalliance of love grieves his generous soul.