“See, what a man he is!” exclaimed the Galla slave, Fatûmah, her hand upon the shoulder of her mistress, all respect forgotten in intense excitement. “He does not even stay to tune his lute. All that is for the common singers. He is much above it. By Allah, he would sing to a dog’s howl and make it musical.”

One twang of the lute, and then the magic voice arose from out the shadow of the trees. It gave a living spirit to the starlight, a soul to all the nights that ever were or would be. It seemed illumination, yet was all of mystery; it gave the listener a sense of floating disembodied.

Once when Tâhir paused to rest, the voice of Hamdi was heard in the garden, begging for leave to hold his lute and play it.

“That boy again! Cut short his life!” cried Fitnah Khânum. “Devoid of manners as of sensibility. Remove him quickly!”