In that event, the outward charms correspond, and Khalid is a lucky dog—if someone can keep the Jesuits away.
This, then, is our picture of Najma, to whom he is now relating, in the Temple of Venus, of the dangers he had passed and the felicities of the bedouin life he has in view.
It is evening. The moon struggles through the poplars to light the Temple for them, and the ambrosial breeze caresses their cheeks.
“No,” says Khalid; “we can not live here, O my Heart, after we are formally married. The curse in my breast I must not let you share, and only when I am rid of it am I actually your husband. By the life of this blessed night, by the light of these stars, I am inalterably resolved on this, and I shall abide by my resolution. We must leave Baalbek as soon as the religious formalities are done. And I wish your father would have them performed under his roof. That is as good as going to Church to be the central figures of the mummery of priests. But be this as You will. Whether in Church or at home, whether by your father or by gibbering Levites the ceremony is performed, we must hie us to the desert after it is done.
I shall hire the camels and prepare the necessary set-out for the wayfare a day or two ahead. No, I must not be a burden to you, my Heart. I must be able to work for you as for myself. And Allah alone, through the ministration of his great Handmaid Nature, can cure me and enable me to share with you the joys of life. No, not before I am cured, can I give you my whole self, can I call myself your husband. Into the desert, therefore, to some oasis in its very heart, we shall ride, and there crouch our camels and establish ourselves as husbandmen. I shall even build you a little home like your own. And you will be to me an aura of health, which I shall breathe with the desert air, and the evening breeze. Yes, our love shall dwell in a palace of health, not in a hovel of disease.