anavar knew it for the Jewel in the fingers of her
betrothed, by the strength of its effulgence. Then she called to him
joyfully a cry of welcome, and quickened his coming with her calls, and
the youth alighted from his mare and left it to pasture, and advanced to
her, holding aloft the Jewel. And the Jewel was of great size and purity,
round, and all-luminous, throwing rays and beams everywhere about it, a
miracle to behold,--the light in it shining, and as the very life of the
blood, a sweet crimson, a ruby, a softer rose, an amethyst of tender
hues: it was a full globe of splendours, showing like a very kingdom of
the Blest; and blessed was the eye beholding it! So when he was within
reach of her arm, the damsel sprang to him and caught from his hand the
Jewel, and held it before her eyes, and danced with it, and pressed it on
her bosom, and was as a creature giddy with great joy in possessing it.
And she put the Jewel in her bosom, and looked on the youth to thank him
for the Jewel with all her beauty; for the passion of a mighty pride in
him who had won for her the Jewel exalted Bhanavar, and she said sweetly,
'Now hast thou proved to me thy love of me, and I am thine, O my
betrothed,--wholly thine. Kiss me, then, and cease not kissing me, for
bliss is in me.'

But the youth eyed her sorrowfully, even as one that hath great yearning,
and no power to move or speak.

So she said again, in the low melody of deep love-tones, 'Kiss me, O my
lover! for I desire thy kiss.'

Still he spake not, and was as a pillar of stone.

And she started, and cried, 'Thou art whole? without a hurt?' Then sought
she to coax him to her with all the softness of her half-closed eyes and
budded lips, saying, ''Twas an idle fear! and I have thee, and thou art
mine, and I am thine; so speak to me, my lover! for there is no music
like the music of thy voice, and the absence of it is the absence of all
sweetness, and there is no pleasure in life without it.'

So the tenderness of her fondling melted the silence in him, and
presently his tongue was loosed, and he breathed in pain of spirit, and
his words were the words of the proverb:

He that fighteth with poison is no match for the prick of a thorn.

And he said, 'Surely, O Bhanavar, my love for thee surpasseth what is
told of others that have loved before us, and I count no loss a loss that
is for thy sake.' And he sighed, and sang:

Sadder than is the moon's lost light,