how the sun was again a little nearer to its rising in the east, and how much nearer he himself was to the meeting with Adinda.
For she was sure to come at the first gleam, nay, she would already be there at the glimmer of early dawn. . . . Ah! why had she not already come the day before?
It made him sad that she had not anticipated it, the glorious moment which for three years had shone before him with indescribable radiance. And unjust as he was in the selfishness of his love, it seemed to him that Adinda should have been there, waiting for him, who now complained—before the time already!—that he had to wait for her.
But he complained without cause. For still the sun had not yet risen, still the eye of day had not cast its first glance on the plain. Certainly, the stars were paling above, ashamed that soon there would be an end to their reign . . . and strange colours floated across the summits of the mountains, which appeared darker as they were outlined more sharply on a lighter background . . . and here and there through the clouds in the East sped something flaming—arrows of gold and fire shot hither and thither, parallel with the skyline—but anon they vanished and seemed to fall behind the impenetrable curtain that ever still hid the day from Saïdyah’s eyes.
Yet gradually lighter and lighter it grew around him. He already saw the landscape, and already he distinguished the comb of the klappa-wood in which Badoor lies hidden. . . . There slept Adinda.
No, she slept no longer! How could she sleep? Did she not know that Saïdyah would be waiting for her? Oh, surely, she had not slept all night! Doubtless the night-watcher had knocked at her door to ask why the lamp continued to burn in her little dwelling, and with a sweet laugh she had told him that a promise kept her awake to finish weaving the skirt she was working at, and that had to be ready for the first day of the new moon.
Or she had passed the night in darkness, sitting on her rice-
