“My daughter shall be brought at thy command; The red flames may ascend from blazing brand And slay their victim, crackling in the air, And Lailī dutiously shall perish there. Or, if thou’dst rather see the maiden bleed, This thirsty sword shall do the dreadful deed; Dissever at one blow that lovely head, Her sinless blood by her own father shed! In all things thou shalt find me faithful, true, Thy slave I am—what would’st thou have me do? But mark me; I am not to be beguiled; I will not to a demon give my child; I will not to a madman’s wild embrace Consign the pride and honor of my race, And wed her to contempt and foul disgrace.” The chivalry of the desert disdained to tear the child from her father’s arms, even though that father was a conquered foe. The gallant Noufal, feeling that he was himself defeated, and that in vain the blood of his brave men had stained the desert sands, sadly gave the order that the conquered tribe should be allowed to retire unmolested from the well fought field. “And thou and thine may quit the field. Still armed with khanjer, sword and shield; Both horse and rider. Thus in vain Blood has bedewed this thirsty plain.” With a heavy heart the gallant chief pursued his homeward way with Majnūn, reckless and desperate, by his side. He tried again to calm the poignant pangs of hopeless love, and to bless, with gentleness and tender care, the wounded and despairing spirit. “But vain his efforts; mountain, wood and plain Soon heard the maniac’s piercing woes again; Escaped from listening ear and watchful eye, Lonely again, in desert wild to lie.” In another part of the wild domain a cloud of dust on the horizon of the desert tells of the coming of a troop of horsemen, and soon a wearied and broken column is seen beneath the clouds of sand which obscure the blue of heaven. The women of the conquered tribe, who had been placed in safer quarters, come forth to meet the returning warriors. As the trampling steeds come nearer they hear the leader’s angry word, as he breathes his curses, loud and deep, upon the victor in the fight, for he scarcely cares to survive the blow while burning with the disgrace of defeat. Poor Lailī listens sadly to the story of her fate, but no hope of aid can enter her crushed and broken heart. And still the story of her beauty is borne on every gale, and the neighboring tribes are wondering for whom her father is keeping the beauteous gem. THE WEDDING.