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The letter the messenger brought me, where did it come from? It was only this instant I thought clearly over this, and I divined at once how the whole thing hung together. I grew sick with pain and shame. I whispered "Ylajali" a few times, with hoarse voice, and flung back my head.
I advanced from the lamp-post and looked up at the house. Then something odd happened. The curtains above were stirred, and a second after a window opened, a head popped out, and two singular-looking eyes dwelt on me. "Ylajali!" I muttered, half-aloud, and I felt I grew red.
It was more than king here, or about the same as Sultan, if he knew what that meant, but Happolati had managed the whole thing, and was never at a loss. And I related about his daughter Ylajali, a fairy, a princess, who had three hundred slaves, and who reclined on a couch of yellow roses.
"And you mustn't think all too badly of me," she added; she was smiling again. "No." Suddenly she made a resolute movement and drew her veil up over her forehead; we stood and gazed at one another for a second. "Ylajali!" I cried. She stretched herself up, flung her arms round my neck and kissed me right on the mouth only once, swiftly, bewilderingly swiftly, right on the mouth.
I would be really so grateful." A pause. I walked on in expectation. "You have seen me before," she replies. "Ylajali," I say again. "Beg pardon. You followed me once for half-a-day, almost right home. Were you tipsy that time?" I could hear again that she smiled. "Yes," I said. "Yes, worse luck, I was tipsy that time." "That was horrid of you!" And I admitted contritely that it was horrid of me.
"Missy" stood and talked, and tried to make good his mistake again. I did not listen to him at all; I stood the whole time and stared at the red dress that was coming nearer up the street, and a stir thrilled through my breast, a gliding delicate dart. I whispered in thought without moving my lips: "Ylajali!"
I? If there was anything in the world I hated it was to go to bed before twelve o'clock at night. Ah, there, you see! She, too, was just the same; she took this little tour in the evenings when she had nothing to lose by doing so. She lived up in St. Olav's Place. "Ylajali," I cried. "I beg pardon?" "I only said 'Ylajali' ... it's all right. Continue...." She lived up in St.
And I used my last strength to tidy up my bed a little, so that it might appear a little orderly about me in the morning. I folded my hands and chose my position. All at once I remember Ylajali. To think that I could have forgotten her the entire evening through!
It sailed away with me, and I made no effort. "Come in! Yes, only come right in! As you see everything is of ruby Ylajali, Ylajali! that swelling crimson silken divan! Ah, how passionately she breathes. Kiss me loved one more more! Your arms are like pale amber, your mouth blushes.... Waiter I asked for a plate of beef!"
I overtake her again, pass her by, turn quickly round, and meet her face-to-face in order to observe her well. I stand and gaze into her eyes, and hit, on the spur of the moment, on a name which I have never heard before a name with a gliding, nervous sound Ylajali! When she is quite close to me I draw myself up and say impressively: "You are losing your book, madam!"
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