All which he endeavours to express to Egilona in the most eloquent language he can command, while he bends the knee before her as a vassal to his queen. Then he sighed. Her royal position placed an insuperable barrier between them. Besides, he felt that the Caliph at Damascus ought to be notified at once of the possession of such an illustrious captive. “Could he do so?” he asked himself. “Could he run the risk of losing her? No! a thousand times no!” Chance or fate had thrown her in his way. She was actually a slave in his harem. There she should remain unless she herself wished otherwise. Fortunately that tiresome person, the discreet Ayub, knew nothing about her. His reproaches, at all events, were not to be encountered. Possibly!--ah! possibly--a tender project formed itself in his brain. Would she, the wife of the royal Goth, consent to share an Emir’s throne? But at that moment he was too much overcome and self-diffident to allow himself to pursue so roseate a dream. Calling together his guards, hidden about the garden, but ever present near his person, Abdul-asis, with a heart torn by conflicting emotions, conducted Egilona through the marble courts to the _Patio de las Muñecas_. * * * * * All that the tenderest love could dictate was showered upon her by the amorous Emir. She lived in the royal apartments, and a special train of slaves, eunuchs, and women attended upon her. Before the gold-embroidered draperies of her door turbaned guards stood day and night, holding naked scimitars. Her table was served with the same luxury as that of a sultana. When she went abroad into the streets of Seville she rode on a beautiful palfrey, caparisoned with silken fringes, a silver bridle and stirrup, and a bit of gold. At the sound of the tinkling bells which hung about the harness, all who met her prostrated themselves to the earth, as though the Emir himself were passing. Even the muezzin, ringing out the hour of prayer from the galleries of the Giralda, was commanded to pronounce a blessing on her head. Such a complete change in the life of Abdul-asis could not but arouse the wrath of the discreet Ayub. Numberless were the times he tried to waylay him, always ineffectually, however, for the Emir gave orders he was not to be admitted. One day they did meet in the outer _Patio de las Bandieras_ (where now the superb portal of Don Pedro blazes in the sun), just as Abdul-asis was mounting his horse for the chase. “Hold, my cousin and lord,” cries Ayub, laying hold of his bridle. “Tarry awhile, I pray you, for the sake of our kinship. Am I a dog, that you should drive me with kicks and imprecations from your door?” “Far from me be such a thought,” replies Abdul-asis, colouring. “No one thinks better of you than I. But, my cousin, permit me now to depart. Another time we will pursue the subject.”