The tears, which Zaide shed in writing, were not tears of sorrow. ’Twas love that made them flow. And in that moment, a delicious sentiment, which arose from a certainty of possessing the heart of Zuleiman, was the only one that affected her. “Dear Zuleiman,” cry’d she, “how I love thee! how dear thou art to me! How agreeably thou employest me! In those instants, when Zaide has not the happiness of seeing thee, she writes to thee how much she is thine: separated from Zuleiman, his love is the only conversation which gives her pleasure.”

Zaide was thus far advanced in her amorous meditation, when Mangogul pointed his ring at her. Immediately he heard her Toy send forth a sigh and repeat the first words of her mistress’s monology. “Dear Zuleiman, how I love thee! how dear thou art to me! how agreeably thou employest me!” Zaide’s heart and Toy were too well agreed, to vary in their discourse. Zaide was surprised at first; but she was so sure that her Toy would say nothing, but what Zuleiman might hear with pleasure, that she wish’d him present.