the shade of
the trees, still hiding in their branches the dewy chill of night. The
king has on a simple white mantle, fastened at the right shoulder and
at the left side by two AEgyptian clasps of green gold, in the shape of
curled crocodiles,--the symbol of the god Sebekh. The hands of the king
lie motionless upon his knees, while his eyes, overshadowed by deep
thought, unwinking, are directed toward the east, in the direction of
the Dead Sea,--there, where from the rounded summit of Anaze the sun is
rising in the flame of dawn.

The morning wind is blowing from the east and spreads the fragrance of
the grape in blossom,--a delicate fragrance, like that of mignonette and
mulled wine. The dark cypresses sway their slender tops pompously and
pour out their resinous breath. The silvery-green leaves of the olives
hurriedly converse among themselves.

But now Solomon arises and hearkens carefully. An endearing feminine
voice, clear and pure as this dewy morn, is singing somewhere not far
off, beyond the trees. The simple and tender motive runs on and on, of
its own accord, like a ringing rill in the mountains, repeating the five
or six notes, always the same. And its unpretentious, exquisite charm
calls forth a smile in the eyes of the touched king.

Nearer and nearer sounds the voice. Now it is already here, alongside,
behind the spreading cedars, behind the dark verdure of the junipers.
Then the king cautiously parts the branches with his hands, quietly
makes his way between the prickly branches, and comes out upon an open
place.

Before him, beyond the low wall, rudely built of great yellow stones,
the vineyard spreads upward. A girl, in a light garment of blue, walks
between the rows of vines, bending down over something below, and again
straightening up, and she is singing. Her ruddy hair flames in the sun:

The breath of the day is coolness,
And the shadows flee away.
Turn, my beloved,
And be thou like a roe or a young hart,
Within the clefts of the rocks....

Thus sings she, tying up the grapevines, and slowly descends, nearer and
nearer the stone wall behind which the king is standing. She is alone,
none sees nor hears her; the scent of the grapes in blossom, the joyous
freshness of the morning, and the warm blood in her heart are like
wine unto her, and now the words of the naive little song are born
spontaneously upon her lips and are carried away by the wind, to be
forgotten forever:

Take