HASSANEIN. 191 



It was at the village of Jenin on the plain of Jezreel 

 that the Nubian boy lost his heart. She was a star, that 

 Syrian girl, and to him as unapproachable as any star 

 that shines above us. They were there some weeks, and 

 he often saw her at the well — the spring that gushes out 

 so gloriously from its long covered passage in the very 

 centre of the place. He would sit there hours to see her 

 but a moment. He had never seen the faces of women 

 before. They had no hesitation in permitting his glance 

 there, his gaze ; and, in fact, the tall dark-eyed girl learned 

 with a girl's quickness to look for his admiration, and re- 

 joiced in lashing the poor Nubian boy with her quick 

 eyes and smiles. 



It would seem too much like a love-story were I to tell 

 you of his writhings under that delicious torture. It was 

 enough for him to learn that she was a Nazarene, one of 

 the despised and hated followers of Christ (known to this 

 day as A'azara), to feel the impossibility of calling her his 

 wife even were he other than a poor Nubian. He was a 

 Mussulman, believing in God and Mohammed, and he 

 would die such, poor though he was ; but for her he felt 

 that he could deny the Frophet and forfeit heaven, were 

 that of any avail. 



Again I say why not? That Nubian boy's heart was 

 made in the same mould with Adam's, the same with 

 mine and yours. It beat to the same time that the first 

 heart learned in the warm walks of Eden, to the same 

 pulsations that were once answered by the throbbing 

 breast of Eve. He loved as men have always loved, poor 

 or rich, and like many (how many !) he loved in vain. 

 Alas the day ! 



It was not the old story — it was far worse. It was a 

 half-muttered tale of horrible outrage, terrible wrong. He 



