What I saw was first a glow of yellow green, then
a mass of blossoms, then a throat, chin and face,
one after another, all veiled in a gossamer thin as a
spider's web, and last--and these I shall never forget
--a pair of eyes shining clear below and above the
veil, and which gazed into mine with the same steady,
full, unfrightened look one sometimes sees on the
face of a summer moon when it bursts through a
rift in the clouds.

"Don't move and don't look," whispered Joe in
my ear, a tone in his voice of one who had just seen
a ghost. "Allah! Ekber! Yuleima!"

"Who is she?" I answered, craning my neck to
see the closer.

"No speak now--keep still," he mumbled under
his breath.

It may have been the gossamer veil shading a
rose skin, making pink pearls of the cheeks and chin
and lending its charm to the other features; or it
may have been the wonderful eyes that made me
oblivious of Joe's warning, for I did look--looked
with all my eyes, and kept on looking.

Men have died for just such eyes. Even now,
staid old painter as I am, the very remembrance
of their wondrous size--big as a young doe's and as