Her boy was her delight in life. No other woman was allowed to scold him. When YÛsuf slapped him in the cause of order, which happened often, for the child was naughty, she made it up to him with sugar-plums and fond caresses. In his father’s absence Muhammad was the lord of the harÎm; all vied to please him. His foster-mother and the servants told him fairy stories in which good children killed all kinds of monsters. One, which he never tired of hearing, ended thus:

“Then little HÂfiz took a sword and reaped the head of the atrocious ghoul; and beat to death the hag who had ill-used him, and with the help of all the neighbours, who acclaimed his goodness, burnt all his wicked little cousins in a cheerful fire.”

He knew that tale by heart and went about repeating it. He had a lot of toys, but none which gave him so much pleasure as a little cane. With this he beat the slave-girls, uttering terrific curses. The victims, for his satisfaction, made believe to cry, and assured him they were seriously injured. His mother and old Umm ed-Dahak praised his manly spirit.

Fitnah KhÂnum sometimes shook her head and spoke of necessary discipline. Barakah only smiled; as she did also, when young Na’imah, puffed up with pride of her new motherhood, exclaimed: “By Allah, I will bring up my son otherwise.” But when the prim and dainty Turkish ladies looked fastidious, glancing around her room where toys lay scattered, she felt angry. The salons of those ladies were maintained in spotless cleanliness; their children, though untidy to avert ill-fortune, were as courtly as small chamberlains towards their elders.

“It is strange! Thou art an Englishwoman, yet thou likest these things!” AmÎnah KhÂnum exclaimed once, remarking her affection for a certain sweetstuff, common in the markets but unknown in decent houses—a taste she had acquired through Umm ed-Dahak. “Thou art too much with the women of the country. Be more discerning in the choice of friends.”

But Barakah was happy as she was; or, if not altogether happy, chose to seem so from a blend of pride and indolence. Against the condescension of the Turkish ladies she armed her dignity with the reflection that she was born above all Eastern women. Yet she dared not let remembrance dwell on England for fear of terrible misgivings she had sworn to banish. Her boy, she thought, should be her vindication. He was visibly superior to other children of the land.

To him, clasped tightly to her breast, she poured out all her secret and tormenting thoughts.

The English had ill-treated her most shamefully. Her son must hate the English for her sake. And yet he must remember he was half an Englishman, a being of a different order from the children round him. And when he prayed he must ask Allah to increase his strength and wisdom, so that he might prove a match for any Englishman he might encounter in the course of life. The child, with bright eyes, drank in all she said, but God alone knew what his mind could make of it; for Barakah’s opinions were a tangle as of angry serpents, their utterance as incoherent as the cries of battle. She heard him once hurl “Englishwoman!” at a slave who had enraged him. The girl laughed back: “Thy mother is an Englishwoman,” when he replied: “A noble race and warlike—the MuslimÎn among them, like my mother. But thou art a low Christian of that race, a filthy harlot!”

Outside her own house and her husband’s family Barakah’s chief friends were Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-BudÛr. With them she laid aside the pride which had become her usual armour in society. Yet Gulbeyzah said one day when Barakah was calling on her: “How thou art changed! Rememberest thou the days when we talked French together? Then thou wast as timid and demure as mice are; and so good and wise! Now thou art a high and mighty Arab lady. I am half afraid!”

“Thou too art greatly changed, O wicked joker!” cried Barakah, impounding the Circassian’s hand. “Rememberest thou the little window in the passage?”

“Hush!” said Gulbeyzah, with uplifted finger. “By Allah, thou art owner of a shameless memory. But come with me!”

She led her friend away from the reception-room, upstairs, and showed her such another little window as that they both remembered, looking out on distant roofs. “I come and dream here sometimes as of old—I, the mother of two children!” sighed Gulbeyzah. “There is a roof well fitted for a hopeless lover, but no one ever comes. Now thou knowest that I have not changed my foolish nature, although in motherhood I have acquired a soul.”

That the Turkish ladies rather wondered at her preference for Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-BudÛr, two former slaves, made Barakah the more enamoured of their friendship. Muhammad was allowed to visit them, and play games with their children, a transcendent favour; and it was with a horror as of treason and of base ingratitude that she heard them, too, declare that he was sadly spoilt.

It was at the wedding-feast which TÂhir, the great singer, gave his daughter. The ladies of the grand harÎms flocked thither eagerly, for it was known that TÂhir would perform. The two Circassians found out Barakah amid the throng, and went and sat with her in a deserted corner. Muhammad had that day been playing with the children of Gulbeyzah’s house.

“He is a little tyrant!” said his hostess, laughing. “A young savage. He attacked my little girl as if to kill her, because she tried to get back her own doll. I had to shake him. I told him that his mother would be very angry at his conduct. He cursed my religion and then spat at me. By our lady Zeynab, thou shouldst beat him sometimes, O my soul!”

“His spirit is too high and needs restraining. Every one says so,” said Bedr-ul-BudÛr.

“You must have thwarted him. He is not used to it. He has the noblest, the most generous nature,” answered Barakah.

“By Allah, it is difficult not to thwart a boy who claims the eyes from out one’s face as his to play with! He must be denied, and when denied he grows infuriated,” said Gulbeyzah mildly.

Barakah was on the point of making a fierce answer, when the glorious voice of TÂhir rose, compelling silence. She had heard a hundred singers, male and female, since she came to Cairo; but TÂhir’s voice alone had power to move her. The others mouthed and shrieked to individual passions; but TÂhir took the soul and soared with it, producing exaltation and a sense of peace. He sang from the pure heart of El IslÂm, and shed its fervent calm on all who heard him. When the song died she had forgotten anger.

That wedding-feast became for ever memorable by reason of a shocking tragedy at its conclusion. Barakah and her friends were led by Umm ed-Dahak, who was a relative of TÂhir’s wife, to view the nuptial chamber. It was full of flowering plants; the bed, with silken coverings, was quite embowered. In addition to the odour of so many blossoms the air was thick with perfumes burnt and sprinkled. The room, they were informed, had been arranged, the flowers provided, by rich admirers of the singer’s talent.

“By Allah, pretty! But I should not like to sleep there!” had been Gulbeyzah’s comment, little guessing what would happen. For next morning it was known to high and low, through all the city, that the bridegroom and the bride had died of suffocation. When people went to rouse them in the morning they found corpses. The news was brought to Barakah by Umm ed-Dahak, who had herself been present at the sad discovery. She told the story with an artist’s relish.

“What did TÂhir do? The poor demented father? What did he? He took his lute and struck the chords and sang a song more mournful than was ever heard on earth till now. Many present had to leave the room in grievous pains. And then, with the last note—C-r-r-a-c-k!—he broke the lute, and swore the binding oath that he would never sing again. In sh´Allah he will change his mind,” said Umm ed-Dahak, in her ordinary tone. “The world would lack a soul without his singing. His oath has spread despair through all the town.”

For months the news of TÂhir was demanded eagerly. After his daughter’s death he went to Tantah for a while. Returning to the capital, prepared to keep his vow, he took a shop and furnished it with goods, intending to become a merchant. He thought to work out bargains over cups of coffee, by way of pastime only, for he was a wealthy man. But the people, his admirers, would not have it. They thronged his shop directly it was opened, and bought up all his goods in a few hours, paying the price first asked without a protest. He stocked his shop again; the same thing happened, till, finding himself debarred from occupation, he cursed the day when he was born; and in the end repaired to the Grand CÂdi, and asked for liberation from his vow. The reverend judge released him with a grin and “Praise to Allah!” It was what his Honour and the whole of Egypt had been wanting. Enormous crowds assembled to hear TÂhir call to noonday prayer at the great mosque El Azhar—the first occasion of his singing since his daughter’s death.

“The praise to Allah, we possess him once again,” said Umm ed-Dahak, when reporting his defeat. “It has cost us trouble to regain him, Allah knows. He did wrong to swear that oath; which was as impious as swearing to cut off his hand or foot, the work of God; and so the CÂdi told him in his judgment yesterday. He brought the grief upon himself by doting on the girl above her merits, calling her his soul of music, neglecting the son who is still with him—a fine lad. By the Prophet, it was courting sorrow to make all that fuss about a daughter. Now had it been his son, his source of honour——”

Barakah interrupted with a prayer to Allah to avert the omen of her stabbing fear. She clutched Muhammad to her bosom; but he, intent on playthings, kicked and struggled, even swore at her. And at that moment Fitnah KhÂnum was announced.