The Prince of True Believers, so ran the story, had quarreled with his favorite wife, and in consequence had fallen into a state of melancholy so deep as to threaten his health and to alarm his ministers.  Do what they would, he still declined, until in despair the Hadjeb sent for Zahra, daughter of Abul Malek.  She came, surrounded by her servants, and sang before El Hakkam.  So cunningly did she contrive her verses, so tender were her airs, so potent were her fluttering fingers, that those within hearing were moved to tears, and the unhappy lover himself became so softened that he sped to the arms of his offended beauty and a reconciliation occurred.  In token of his gratitude he had despatched a present of forty thousand drachmas of gold to the singer, and her renown went broadcast like a flame.

When Abul Malek heard of this he praised his God, and, gathering his horsemen, he set out to bring his daughter home, for the time was ripe.

One evening in early spring, that magic season when nature is most charming, Fray Joseph, returning to his cell, heard from behind a screen of verdure alongside his path a woman singing.  But was this singing? he asked himself.  Could mortal lips give birth to melody like this?  It was the sighing of summer winds through rustling leaves, the music of crystal brooks on stony courses, the full-throated worship of birds.  Joseph listened, enthralled, like a famished pilgrim in the desert.  His simple soul, attuned to harmonies of the woodland, leaped in answer; his fancy, starved by years of churchly rigor, quickened like a prisoner at the light of day.  Not until the singer had ceased did he resume his way, and through his dreams that night ran the song of birds, the play of zephyrs, the laughter of bubbling springs.

A few evenings later he heard the voice again, and paused with lips apart, with heart consumed by eagerness.  It was some slave girl busied among the vines of Abul Malek, he decided, for she translated all the fragmentary airs that float through summer evenings—­the songs of sweethearts, the tender airs of motherhood, the croon of distant waterfalls, the voice of sleepy locusts—­and yet she wove them into an air that carried words.  It was most wonderful.

Joseph felt a strong desire to mingle his voice with the singer’s, but he knew his throat to be harsh and stiff from chanting Latin phrases.  He knew not whither the tune would lead, and yet, when she sang, he followed, realizing gladly that she voiced the familiar music of his soul.  He was moved to seek her out and to talk with her, until he remembered with a start that she was a woman and he a priest.

Each night he shaped his course so as to bring him past the spot where the mysterious singer labored, and in time he began to feel the stirring of a very earthly curiosity, the which he manfully fought down.  Through the long, heated hours of the day he hummed her airs and repeated her verses, longing for the twilight hour which would bring the angel voice from out the vineyard.  Eventually the girl began to sing of love, and Joseph echoed the songs in solitude, his voice as rasping and untrue as that of a frog.