And she started, and cried, 'Thou art whole? without a hurt?' Then sought she to coax him to her with all the softness of her half-closed eyes and budded lips, saying, ''Twas an idle fear! and I have thee, and thou art mine, and I am thine; so speak to me, my lover! for there is no music like the music of thy voice, and the absence of it is the absence of all sweetness, and there is no pleasure in life without it.' So the tenderness of her fondling melted the silence in him, and presently his tongue was loosed, and he breathed in pain of spirit, and his words were the words of the proverb: He that fighteth with poison is no match for the prick of a thorn. And he said, 'Surely, O Bhanavar, my love for thee surpasseth what is told of others that have loved before us, and I count no loss a loss that is for thy sake.' And he sighed, and sang: Sadder than is the moon's lost light, Lost ere the kindling of dawn, To travellers journeying on, The shutting of thy fair face from my sight. Might I look on thee in death, With bliss I would yield my breath. Oh! what warrior dies With heaven in his eyes? O Bhanavar! too rich a prize! The life of my nostrils art thou, The balm-dew on my brow; Thou art the perfume I meet as I speed o'er the plains, The strength of my arms, the blood of my veins. Then said he, 'I make nothing matter of complaint, Allah witnesseth! not even the long parting from her I love. What will be, will be: so was it written! 'Tis but a scratch, O my soul! yet am I of the dead and them that are passed away. 'Tis hard; but I smile in the face of bitterness.'