On the inside of
the old, moss-grown wall were numerous buttresses, and in these
angles and corners, sheltered from any breeze, the roses and the
small fruit-trees fairly rioted together, blending their masses of
pink and white bloom.
On this evening, when the sky shone like one sheet of purest
mother-of-pearl, green and rose and faint purple, the garden was
very still; the only sound was the murmur of the falling water, the
coo of some white doves in a pear-tree, and a very light step
pacing on the tiny narrow path that wound its way round the whole
garden amongst the rose-bushes and lemon-trees.
Dilama, the youngest of the ladies of the harem, was walking in the
garden with her white veil thrown back and a smile on her small,
red, curling lips. She stooped here and there to gather a flower
whenever a bud or blossom of particular beauty caught her eye, and
fastened now one against her thick brown hair, and now one or two
upon the rich-embroidered muslin that covered the upper part of her
bosom. She was intensely happy: in the spring at Damascus, at
seventeen and in love, who would not be happy? The fires of youth
and love and joy burned in her flesh and danced in her veins and
shone in her eyes, and she sang and smiled to herself as she
gathered the flowers. She was a Druze woman, and gifted with the
wonderful beauty that Nature has showered on the women of Syria.
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