the fringes of the closed eyes were long, dark, and delicately upcurled;--but this was not all. There was something else,--something quite undefinable, that gave a singular glow and radiance to the whole countenance, and suggested the burning of a light through alabaster,--a creeping of some subtle fire through the veins which made the fair body seem the mere reflection of some greater fairness within. If those eyes were to open, one thought, how wonderful their lustre must needs be!--if that perfect figure rose up and moved, what a harmony would walk the world in maiden shape!--and yet,--watching that hushed repose, that scarcely perceptible breathing, it seemed more than certain that she would never rise,--never tread earthly soil in common with earth’s creatures,--never be more than what she seemed,--a human flower, gathered and set apart--for whom? For God’s love? Or Man’s pleasure? Either, neither, or both? El-Râmi entered the rich apartment, followed by Zaroba, and stood by the couch for some minutes in silence. Whatever his thoughts were, his face gave no clue to them,--his features being as impassive as though cast in bronze. Zaroba watched him curiously, her wrinkled visage expressive of some strongly-suppressed passion. The sleeping girl stirred and smiled in her sleep,--a smile that brightened her countenance as much as if a sudden glory had circled it with a halo. “Ay, she lives for you!” said Zaroba. “And she grows fairer every day. She is the sun and you the snow. But the snow is bound to melt in due season,--and even you, El-Râmi-Zarânos, will hardly baffle the laws of Nature!” El-Râmi turned upon her with a fierce mute gesture that had something of the terrible in it,--she shrank from the cold glance of his intense eyes, and in obedience to an imperative wave of his hand moved away to a farther corner of the room, where, crouching down upon the floor, she took up a quaint implement of work, a carved triangular frame of ebony, with which she busied herself, drawing glittering threads in and out of it with marvellous speed and dexterity. She made a weird picture there, squatted on the ground in her yellow cotton draperies, her rough gray hair gleaming like spun silk in the light, and the shining threadwork in her withered hands. El-Râmi looked at her sitting thus, and was suddenly moved with compassion--she was old and sad,--poor Zaroba! He went up to her where she crouched, and stood above her, his ardent fiery eyes seeming to gather all their wonderful lustre into one long, earnest, and pitiful regard. Her work fell from her hands, and as she met that burning gaze a vague smile parted her lips,--her frowning features smoothed themselves into an expression of mingled placidity and peace.