"Indeed I do," she answered, her cheek, that had of late been very pale, now glowing with a rosy flush. "But I began to think _you_ had forgotten, and were never going to take me out again." "Ah! It was not my fault, Ulama." "Whose else could it be?" she asked. "Well--I cannot tell you now. But, if you remember the occasion, do you remember also what we spoke of?" The colour deepened in the maiden's face. She bent her head and fixed her eyes dreamily upon the water; and one hand dropped over the boat's side, as on that day of which he had reminded her. "I then said," he went on, "that I loved you dearly, and asked you whether you could love me in return. And you said you did not understand such love as I described to you. Do you remember?" "Yes; I remember," she said softly. "But then I said I could scarce credit such sudden love for me; and that you might change. And it seems you have, for, since then, you have never told me that you loved me." He seized her hand. "No, Ulama," he cried passionately, "it was not so. I have not altered. But I feared--that--well, that your father might be angered. 'Twas for that reason that I spoke no more to you of love." "In that you did my father wrong," she answered frankly. "My father loves me far too well to cause me pain and----" "Ah! Then--would it pain you were I to go away from here and never see you more?" She started, and a look of mingled fear and grief came into her eyes. "You are--not--going away?" she faltered anxiously. "Not if you bid me stay, Ulama. If you but whisper in my ear that you may come to love me--if only a little--then I will stay--stay on always--forget my country, my own people, my friends; give up everything, and live for you--for you alone, my sweet, my gentle Ulama; my beloved Ulama!" Gradually her head sank until it rested on her hand; her colour deepened, she made no reply, but still gazed pensively into the water. "Tell me, Ulama--am I to stay or go? Oh, say that you will try to love me!" He still retained her hand, and now he passed his own gently over it, she making no effort to withdraw it. Thus answered, he pressed his lips upon it, and at this, also, she showed no resentment. "I would have you stay," she presently murmured softly; "but indeed I fear it is too late for me to try to love you, for my heart tells me you have my love already." And the boat drifted aimlessly in the evening light. The sun had set, and the moon, the witness of so many lovers' vows--both true and false--had shown her silvery light above the surrounding cliffs; and still the two sat on and scarcely spoke, yet, in speechless eloquence, recounting to each other the old, old tale. And, when the sweet Ulama left the boat, her heart could scarce contain the joy that filled it; and in her eye there was a light that it had lacked before, so that the king, her father, drew her affectionately to him and asked her what had wrought this wondrous change.