'You speak in fables,' said Zehowah, laughing.
'Yet you imagined the fable yourself, when you likened me to a palm and to a tower. But I am no lover of allegories. The sword is my argument, and my wit is in my arm. The wall by the tree is the wall of love, and the chief foundation of the tower is the love of Zehowah. If you destroy that, the tree will wither and the tower will fall.'
'Surely there was never such a man as you,' Zehowah answered, half jesting but half in earnest. 'You are as one who has bought a white mare; and though she is fleet, and good to look at, and obedient to his voice and knee, yet he is discontented because she cannot speak to him, and he would fain have her black instead of white, and if possible would teach her to sing like a Persian nightingale.'
'Is it then not natural in a woman to love man? Have you heard no tales of love from the story-tellers of the harem?'
'I have heard many such tales, but none of them were told of me,' Zehowah replied. 'Will you drink again? Is the drink too sweet, or is it not cool?'
She had risen from her seat and held the golden cup, bending down to him, so that her face was near his. He laid his hand upon her shoulder.
'Hear me, Zehowah,' he said. 'I want but one thing in the world, and it was for that I came out of the Red
