The Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours"Grant, James
General
The Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours"
Grant, James
Adventure stories; British -- Foreign countries -- Fiction; Soldiers -- Fiction
He received me morosely, and after smoking a pipe and drinking with
him a cup of coffee, which we received from the white, gentle hands
of Basilia, who was enveloped as before in her veil of lace, I
departed, happy that I had seen but the tips of her dear fingers once
again; happy that I had been under the roof of her father, and happy
that for one brief hour I had shared a corner of his carpet, and
breathed the same atmosphere with one so beautiful and so
well-beloved as she.
Again and again I came to visit Abdallah; for alas! I no longer
sighed for the unfurling of our green standard against the Russ; I
only counted the days and hours till again I should visit the house
of the merchant at Soudjack.
Secluded as the old man kept Basilia--for he deemed her his last and
most valuable estate--a piece of property on which he could at any
time realise a thousand piastres in the Stamboul market--we had
nightly interviews; for what are the difficulties that love cannot
surmount? I had discovered that her chamber window opened into old
Abdallah's garden; its wall was easily crossed, and then three notes
on my lute were the signal which brought Basilia to me; but she was
beyond arm's length, and I never dared to climb, though, had the
wealth of Ormuz been mine, I had given it all to have kissed but once
her hand. Yet, until she was bestowed upon me by her father, what
hope had I of ever doing so?
In the wild and half-civilised countries of the East, a lover invests
his mistress with a thousand imaginary attributes, such as a lover of
Europe or the West can never do. The seclusion in which we keep our
women, the danger and risk of approaching or even speaking of them to
their nearest relations, all enhance the charm, the secresy, and the
romance of an Oriental love; and thus, with such a heart as mine, it
became an all-absorbing and engrossing passion, in which to be
without hope was to be without life. Hourly I exclaimed to myself,--
"Bismillah! oh, Osman, happy thou to win a heart like hers!" for
Basilia responded as warmly as she dared, or as I could have desired.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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