“Blood,” explained Umm ed-Dahak, “is but the juice of living creatures. Had they crushed a fruit before thee, would thy Grace have shrunk or fainted? Those servants sacrificed a thing of value in thy name and scattered blood upon the threshold to bring thee good luck. The flesh of the victim was distributed among the needy, as an almsdeed to the credit of the house of YÛsuf Bey. There are those among the learned who declare such practices to be against religion. Allah knows! Blood is the life of creatures, and a precious offering; and our traditions say that it is wise to shed it upon great occasions. Do but apply thy mind, and thou shalt learn to view such sacrifices with a sort of pleasure. It is true, by Allah! There is a thrill peculiar to the sight of blood.”

To this and many kindred exhortations Barakah replied with shudders. She was downright ill. At last, perceiving her repugnance to be quite invincible, the old woman resigned that branch of her instruction to the Most High, and once more proffered only what she knew would please her. Observing, also, her disgust at the sight of blind, diseased, or crippled persons, numbers of whom frequented the harÎm in quest of alms, she prevented such from entering her presence.

To gain some credit with MurjÂnah KhÂnum, Umm ed-Dahak went and told her, “My sweet lady is too frail. The weakness of the infidels still clings to her. She cannot put her trust in God as we do, but is harassed by the thought of pain and illness. I have tried in vain to win her to a better mind.”

“Leave that to Allah!” was the saint’s reply. “All that I ask of her is to frequent her equals, and not seclude herself in low frivolity.”

“To hear is to obey,” bowed Umm ed-Dahak.

She forthwith set to work to school her mistress in all the courtesies expected of a noble lady. She coached her for her visits, teaching her the names of all the male relations, after whom it was the custom to inquire although she could not know them, together with the private history of each lady of the house.

With such a commentator at her elbow, Barakah found amusement in her social duties. AmÎnah KhÂnum was as kind to her as ever, but made no secret of her disapproval of the life she led.

“I know,” she said, “that thou must feel bewildered sometimes. Our life here is so different from that of Europe. It is natural for one who has left much behind to seek forgetfulness in little pleasures. But why with vulgar natives of the country? Why not with us, who are more civilized and have a nobler view of El IslÂm? Thou art not the only European to be found among us. I have asked some others here to meet thee, and rid thee of the sense of loneliness, which must be dreadful.”

She had in truth collected half a dozen other European women who had married Muslims and assumed the veil. But Barakah, instead of being pleased to meet them, seemed annoyed. They came from Italy and Southern Austria. To be ranked with them aroused her English pride. When AmÎnah KhÂnum asked why she disdained them, she replied that they were women of the lowest class and doubtful character.

“It is unlawful to say that,” the princess scolded. “Such scorn is not permitted here among us. A woman is invested with her husband’s honour. It is a sin to cast up what she did before her marriage. Thy boast is simply thou wast better guarded. Praise God for that, but do not scorn those others!”

Barakah loved them none the more for this rebuke.

In her new dwelling she had three reception-rooms. The gilt salon was kept for very ceremonious visitors. Her intimates were welcomed in a large apartment with cushioned dais and divans round the wall, where she herself was wont to sit with Umm ed-Dahak, though sometimes they would camp upon the housetop under sunshades.

All kinds of suitors came to the selamlik to see YÛsuf; and most of these brought presents, some of which were left at the haramlik entrance to bespeak the intercession of the lady. GhandÛr was made the steward of the house; he and his wife, who still attended on Muhammad, inhabiting a room close by. Barakah was glad to hear his voice again. As a relative by milk, he was allowed sometimes to kiss her hand and raise his chant of honour in her presence.

The winter following her change of residence Barakah was once more brought to bed. The whole household had been praying for another boy; Muhammad had been taught to lisp, “A boy, in sh´Allah!” every time he saw his mother. Umm ed-Dahak had desired her mistress might produce boys only, because, she said, some of the brood were sure to die, and were all boys there was less likelihood of being left with girls alone, like Leylah KhÂnum. But a girl it proved to be. Muhammad shook his little fist at the intruder, shouting, “Daughter of a dog, who bade thee enter?” There was little joy at her reception in the world, and that little raised to cheer the mother’s spirits.

“It is no matter,” chuckled Umm ed-Dahak, whose optimism triumphed over every obstacle.

“A girl comes not amiss; she has her uses. Since some are bound to die in early childhood, it is as well in every family to have a few who can be spared. And YÛsuf Bey will thank thee for this gift. The fathers always like to have a girl or two.”

“Why should some die? In sh´Allah, both of mine will be preserved!” wailed Barakah.

“In sh´Allah! Yet if all the children born were to survive, there soon would not be room to move in our great houses. For example, take the palace of our lord the Pasha, thy good father. Let me see!” She sat in thought and counted on her fingers: “MurjÂnah KhÂnum bore him twenty at the least—all dead; Fitnah KhÂnum more than that—say thirty—of whom six alive. The mother of Ali—she that was a slave—ten at the least, three living. Then there was another concubine ...”

“Stop, stop! It is not true! It cannot be,” cried Barakah, with a hysteric laugh.

But Umm ed-Dahak answered, “True, wallahi. What dismays thee? A woman’s task is to produce. We leave the rest to Allah.”

And to console her hearer she went on to tell of broods of thirty, even forty, reared successfully; when Barakah’s dismay was turned to laughter.

In her moments of depression she was haunted by two terrors on her son’s account. One was ophthalmia, a disease so prevalent in Egypt that half the population was composed of blind and one-eyed persons. The other was the plague, of which the women told grim stories with a strange complacency. Many of her friends had been through epidemics of the pestilence and, by their own report, had known no panic. It was a swift and cruel illness, by which they had lost dear ones in despite of careful nursing; it was from Allah; no one’s thinking could avert or cure it. The horror the mere thought of it inspired in Barakah, her futile worry, filled them with a placid wonder.

She had made up her mind that, if the plague drew near, she would carry off her boy to Europe, having no doubt but she could win consent from YÛsuf. But she said nothing of this resolution to the women, knowing they would deem it godless. As a preventive against ophthalmia, she bathed her son’s eyes with cold water twice a day, and gave orders for the flies that settled on them to be brushed away—a thing the slaves would not have thought of doing on their own initiative.

The plague did not come near her; and Muhammad’s eyes continued bright and liquid under long black lashes. An enemy, unfeared as unexpected, struck her joy.

About the period when he was being weaned, Muhammad had a serious illness. An Armenian doctor was called in, who said, “It is the fever.” At that the women wailed and prayed to Allah. The foe was too well known, the scourge of children. There was no need to tell them what to do.

“It carries off a host of infants every year,” said Umm ed-Dahak. “But be not downcast, O beloved. God is great! Many survive, and those who do recover are free from its malignancy for evermore.”

The malady was typhoid fever, or so like it that Barakah could not detect the slightest difference. She had been often told that it did not attack the natives of the land, but only Europeans, who were thought more delicate. Here, then, was the reason. The natives who grew up were all inoculated, having been through the disease in infancy.

Muhammad lived, for which his mother gave wild thanks to Allah, and performed a hundred alms-deeds she had vowed in her suspense. But a year later her small daughter died of the same scourge, and in the after years she lost five children by it.