Now hear of Valeh and his grief. Before the letter of his beloved poured the rose of pleasure into his lap, he him­self had written a letter to her, full of faith and love. And his letter was already on the road, and lo, her courier entered his house and stood with her letter in his hand. And Valeh knew the messenger, and he fell at the feet of him who brought with him the memory of her home and wept and cried aloud: “Oh new fruit of the tree of hope, where is my love's letter, where is the writing of my salvation, the writing of my beloved's hand, the amulet of my hope, and the medicine of my sorrow? Give me her letter.” The messenger, when he saw his impatience and the might of his tribulation and the heat of his burning, kissed the ground before him and gave him the letter. And when Valeh saw his love's handwriting, he burst into tears and laid the letter against his face, and then opened his heart to her sweet words. And in her letter he found comfort; he held it before him like a mirror, in which he saw not his own face but hers; yea, he saw all the spring in one roseleaf. And he opened it and closed it again, and he turned it in his hand and every moment found a new beauty in it and rejoiced.

And even as when the sun himself follows on the first brightness of dawn* , so on the first letter of his beloved followed the second one, the answer to his. And now, like a porch on two columns, his joy was based on those two letters, and his delight could no more be contained than the rose's fragrance in the rose. His heart danced within him for joy, and he raised aloft the banner of triumph; his brain reeled with love and words unsought sprang to his lips unbidden.

And he caught his pen and wrote an answer—the words which you see here. This is the copy of his letter, may my soul be the ransom of his pen!