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As she sat she heard the King's step, and the colour stole up into her face in a flush like the earliest sunrise. "He is coming," she said; and again; "He loves me." So he came beside the water, walking slowly. But the King was not alone. His arm embraced the latest-come beauty from Samarkhand, and, with his head bent, he whispered in her willing ear.
And every one armed even the boys with belts of cartridges? Then you went up the narrow winding track between the mountains, and you said to yourself, 'This is the road of pure romance. It goes up to silken Samarkhand, and I can ride to Bokhara of the beautiful women and to all the dreams. Am I alive and is it real? You felt that?" "All. Every bit. Go on!" She smiled with pleasure.
Just such noondays seem to have gone to the making of the Arabian Nights, in Damascus, Bokhara, or Samarkhand, with their desert roadways, files of camels, wandering horsemen, crystal springs, welling up under the shade of feathery date groves; their wilderness of roses, songs of nightingales, wines of Shiraz; their narrow bazaar paths with bright overhanging canopies, the men, in loose robes and multi-coloured turbans, selling dates and nuts and melons; their palaces, fragrant with incense, luxurious with kincob-covered divans and bolsters by the window-side; their Zobedia or Amina or Sufia with gaily decorated jacket, wide trousers, and gold-embroidered slippers, a long narghilah pipe curled up at her feet, with gorgeously liveried eunuchs on guard, and all the possible and impossible tales of human deeds and desires, and the laughter and wailing, of that distant mysterious region.
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