urned laden with panniers of
grass or vegetables; others, standing at the foot of the fig trees,
caught in baskets the fruits thrown to them by monkeys trained to pluck
them and perched on the highest branches.

Tahoser contemplated with delight this beautiful landscape, the
peacefulness of which was filling her soul, and she said to herself,
"How sweet it would be to be beloved here, amid the light, the scents,
and the flowers."

Poeri returned. He had finished his tour of inspection, and withdrew to
his room to spend the burning hours of the day. Tahoser followed him
timidly, and stood near the door, ready to leave at the slightest
gesture, but Poeri signed to her to remain.

She came forward timidly and knelt upon the mat.

"You tell me, Hora, that you can play the lute. Take that instrument
hanging upon the wall, strike its cords and sing me some old air, very
sweet, very tender, and very slow. The sleep which comes to one cradled
by music is full of lovely dreams."

The priest's daughter took down the mandore, drew near the couch on
which Poeri was stretched, leaned the head of the lute against the
wooden bed-head hollowed out in the shape of a half-moon, stretched her
arm to the end of the handle of the instrument, the body of which was
pressed against her beating heart, let her hand flutter along the
strings, and struck a few chords. Then she sang in a true, though
somewhat trembling voice, an old Egyptian air, the vague sigh breathed
by the ancestors and transmitted from generation to generation, and in
which recurred constantly one and the same phrase of a sweet and
penetrating monotony.

"In very truth," said Poeri, turning his dark blue eyes upon the maid,
"you know rhythm as does a professional musician, and you might practise
your art in the palaces of kings. But you give to your song a new
expression; the air you are singing, one would think you are inventing
it, and you impart to it a magical charm. Your voice is no longer that
of mourning; another woman seems to shine through you as the light
shines from behind a veil. Who are you?"

"I am Hora," replied Tahoser. "Have I not already told you my story?
Only, I have washed from my face the dust of the road, I have smoothed
out the folds in my crushed gown and put a flower in my hair. If I am
poor, that is no reason why I should be ugly, and the gods sometimes
refuse beauty to the rich. But does it please you that I should go on?"

"Yes. Repeat th