BASTIRMA The moon began to shine upon the gardens of Damascus, casting pale shadows, though the daylight had not quite departed, and the sky behind the trees to westward was still green.

We were sitting out on stools under the walnut trees, beside a stream which made a pleasant murmur.

The air was laden with the scent of unseen roses.

Behind us was a little tavern with a lantern lighted in its entrance arch, a solitary yellow eye amid the twilight.
We were the centre of a crowd, as usual when Suleyman was with us.

His voice attracted people like a drum, and the matter of his talk had power to hold them.