Meanwhile, we shall buy with what money I have a little patch of ground which we shall cultivate together. And we shall own cattle and drink camel milk. And we shall doze in the afternoon in the cool shade of the palms, and in the evening, wrapt in our cloaks, we’ll sleep on the sands under the living stars. Yes, and Najma shall be the harbinger of dawn to Khalid.—Out on that little farm in the oasis of our desert, far from the world and the sanctified abominations of the world, we shall live near to Allah a life of purest joy, of true happiness. We shall never worry about the hopes of tomorrow and the gone blessings of yesterday. We shall not, while labouring, dream of rest, nor shall we give a thought to our tasks while drinking of the cup of repose: each hour shall be to us an epitome of eternity. The trials and troubles of each day shall go with the setting sun, never to rise with him again.
But I am unkind to speak of this. For your glances banish care, and we shall ever be together. Ay, my Heart, and when I take up the lute in the evening, you’ll sing mulayiah to me, and the stars above us shall dance, and the desert breeze shall house us in its whispers of love. …”
And thus interminably, while Najma, understanding little of all this, sits beside him on a fallen column in the Temple and punctuates his words with assenting exclamations, with long eighs of joy and wonder.
“But we are not going to live in the desert all the time, are we?” she asks.
“No, my Heart. When I am cured of my illness we shall return to Baalbek, if you like.”
“Eigh, good. Now, I want to say—no. I shame to speak about such matters.”
“Speak, ya Gazalty (O my Doe or Dawn or both); your words are like the scented breeze, like the ethereal moon rays, which enter into this Temple without permission. Speak, and light up this ruined Temple of thine.”