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Batouch watched him. Presently
he opened his lips and began to sing:
"The love of women is like a date that is golden in the sun,
That is golden--
The love of women is like a gazelle that
comes to drink--
To drink at the water springs--
The love of women is like the nargileh, and like the dust of
the keef
That is mingled with tobacco and with honey.
Put the reed between thy lips, O loving man!
And draw dreams from the haschish that is the love of women!
Janat! Janat! Janat!"
The wind grew louder and sand was blown along the cafe floor and about
the coffee-cups.
"The love of women is like the rose of the Caid's garden
That is full of silver tears--
The love of women is like the first day of the spring
When the children play at Cora--
The love of women is like the Derbouka that has been warmed at
the fire
And gives out a sweet sound.
Take it in thy hands, O loving man!
And sing to the Derbouka that is the love of women.
Janat! Janat! Janat!"
In the doorway, where the lamp swung from the beam, a man in European
dress stood still to listen.


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