twenty, slight, oval face with full lips, hair black as
sealskin and as soft, and eyes that smouldered under
heavy lids. Four rowers in blue and silver attended
his Highness, the amber-colored boat skimming the
waters as a tropical bird skims a lagoon.

The two had passed each other the week before
on the day of the Selamlik (the Turkish holiday)
while paddling up the Sweet Waters of Asia--a little
brook running into the Bosphorus and deep
enough for caiques to float, and every day since that
blissful moment my lady had spent the morning
under the wide-spreading plane-trees shading the
Fountain Beautiful--the Chesmegazell--attended by
her faithful slave Multif, her beautiful body stretched
on a Damascus rug of priceless value, her eager eyes
searching the blue waters of the Bosphorus.

On this particular morning--my lady had just
stepped into her boat--the young man was seen to
raise himself on his elbow, lift his eyelids, and a
slight flush suffused his swarthy cheeks. Then came
an order in a low voice, and the caique swerved in its
course and headed for the dot of white and gold in
which sat Multif and my lady. The Spanish caballero
haunts the sidewalk and watches all day beneath
his Dulcinea's balcony; or he talks to her across the
opera-house or bull-ring with cigarette, fingers, and
cane, she replying with studied movements of her
fan. In the empire of Mohammed, with a hundred