midnight
She was intensely happy : in the spring at Damascus , at seventeen and in love , who would not be happy ? The fires of youth and love and joy burned in her flesh and danced in her veins and shone in her eyes , and she sang and smiled to herself as she gathered the flowers . She was a Druze woman , and gifted with the wonderful beauty that Nature has showered on the women of Syria . Skins that the most perfect Saxon skin of milk and rose can scarcely rival are wedded to eyes of Eastern midnight and brown tresses filled with shining lights of red and gold . She had been born in the fierce , barren mountains lying behind Beirut , and at eight years old had drifted -- part of the spoils of a raid -- into the keeping of Ahmed Ali , the richest landowner and merchant of Damascus . He was a Turk , of pure Turkish blood , and with the large , generous heart and the kindly nature of the Turk . All the life that owed him allegiance , that was supported by his hand , was happy and well cared for -- from the magnificent black horses , ignorant of whip and spur , that filled his stables , and the dogs that lay peacefully about in his palace , to the beauties of the harem , who tripped about gaily singing and laughing in their cool halls and shaded garden .