Surely, he stooped to that fair creature, and folded her to his heart, his whole soul heaving to her; and he cried again and again, 'Shall harm hap to thee through me? by Allah, no!' And he closed the privileged arm of the bridegroom round her waist, that had the yieldingness of the willow-branchlet, the flowingness of the summer sea-wave, and seemed as 'twere melting honey-like at the first gentle pressure; she leaning her head shyly on his shoulder, yet confiding in his faithfulness; it was that she was shy of the great bliss in her bosom, and was made timid by the fervour of her affection; as is sung: Deeper than the source of blushes Is the power that makes them start; Up in floods the red stream rushes, At one whisper of the heart. And it is sung in words present to the youth as he surveyed her: O beauty of the bride! O beauty of the bride! Her bashful joys like serpents sting her tenderness to tears: Her hopes are sleeping eagles in the shining of the spheres; O beauty of the bride! O beauty of the bride! And she's a lapping antelope that from her image flees; And she's a dove caught in two hands, to pant as she shall please; O beauty of the bride! O beauty of the bride! Like torrents over Paradise her lengthy tresses roll: She moves as doth a swaying rose, and chides her hasty soul; The thing she will, that will she not, yet can no will control O beauty, beauty, beauty of the bride! They were thus together, Abarak leaning under one wing of Koorookh for shade up the slope of the hill, and Shibli Bagarag called to him, 'Ho, Abarak! look if there be aught impending over the City.' So he arose and looked, crying, 'One with plunging legs, high up in air over the City, between two bright bodies.' Shibli Bagarag exclaimed, ''Tis well! The second chapter of the Event is opened; so call it, thou that tellest of the Shaving of Shagpat. It will be the shortest.' Then he said, 'The shadow of yonder palm is now a slanted spear up the looped wall of the City. Now, the time of Shagpat's triumph, and his greatest majesty, will be when yonder walls chase the shadow of the palm up this hill; and then will Baba Mustapha be joining the chorus of creatures that shriek toward even ere they snooze. There's not an ape in the woods, nor hyaena in the forest, nor birds on the branches, nor frogs in the marsh that will outnoise Baba Mustapha under the thong! Wullahy, 'twill grieve his soul in aftertime when he sitteth secure in honours, courted, with a thousand ears at his bidding, that so much breath 'scaped him without toll of the tongue! But as the poet says truly: “The chariot of Events lifteth many dusty heels, And many, high and of renown, it crusheth with its wheels.” Wah! I have had my share of the thong, and am I, Master of the Event, to be squeamish in attaining an end by its means? Nay, by this Sword!'